


Chance

by SallyExactly



Series: At My Back [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Characters, Gen, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:31:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 170,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SallyExactly/pseuds/SallyExactly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton's snap decision to re-interpret his mission orders means a new life for Natalia Romanova. She's only got the one shot at it, though, and "how to live and remake yourself in three easy steps" was never included in her assassin training.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Klaipeda

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:
> 
> On-screen, this story contains repeated: graphic depictions of violence; violent death and assassination; disturbing imagery; disordered eating.
> 
> On-screen, this story contains occasional: torture of the intensity displayed in the Marvel movies; child abuse; human trafficking and experimentation, including of children; mental breakdown; suicidal ideation; sexual harassment; disordered eating.
> 
> In addition to the above, this story references past or off-screen: brainwashing, including of children; torture; rape, including of minors; terrorism; mutilation.
> 
> A/N: Thanks to C for thorough edits and feedback, and to K and E for being sounding boards.

The effort of drawing his bow tugged at Clint’s muscles, as it did every single time. No matter how much he used it, or how much he worked out, the bite was always there, ever-so-slightly. He was glad for it. It was like an old friend.

He didn’t like guns. Guns were easy. You could take a life without breaking a sweat, without giving anything of yourself. It wasn’t right.

The man a hundred and twenty meters away wasn’t a terrible man. Clint had killed worse. He didn’t traffic in children, or directly finance terrorism. But he was one string in a knot of people that S.H.I.E.L.D. needed to know about, and he’d been deemed the most disposable. There were agents sitting on his collaborators in three countries, waiting to catch whoever bolted when they heard this man had been assassinated.

His target was enjoying the sunset, leaned back in his chair with his feet up on the railing. It was a gorgeous sunset; purple and orange against a silvery sky. Clint watched the rise and fall of the man’s chest slow as he turned his face up to the last rays. Then he took a slow breath in, held it, and took one final moment to settle into himself. He released the breath and the arrow at the same time. It took the man through the heart. No ceremony, no fanfare, just quiet death. Clint watched as the man spent his remaining dribbles of life, a few gasps and twitches; then his corpse settled into quiescence, face still bathed by the dying light of the sun.

Clint kept watch. His arrow had been precisely on target; no doctor could reverse the massive trauma to the man’s heart. But he wasn’t sloppy, and he waited for the five minutes that signaled the onset of brain death. Sometimes miracles happened. Sometimes sufficiently rich warlords had experimental brain-transfer technology. He hated having to kill someone twice.

The man below was truly dead, now. Clint got up from his hiding place and started down the narrow path that would eventually take him to his ride home. With his free hand, he took out his phone and sent a short message to his handler for this mission: _Complete_.

*

He had plenty of time on the ride back to write his report, and he filed it as soon as he got back to New York. He wasn’t surprised when Coulson found him in the cafeteria, not long after he’d pressed “Submit.” Coulson liked to keep abreast of his missions with other handlers. But Coulson didn’t ask him any questions this time; instead he slid a folder across the table. “Your yearly psych eval came back.”

Clint dropped the folder on the floor. “I’ll put it with the others.”

“It says you’re dangerously isolated and a pathological loner.”

Clint took another bite. “Like I said,” he mumbled around the fork. “With the others.”

Coulson put another folder on the table. “The janitorial staff received a complaint and opened up your quarters. They found a family of rats gnawing on week-old cafeteria rolls.”

Aw, shit. Clint knew there’d been something he’d forgotten to take care of before he’d left. “Janitorial lets rats run around here? That doesn’t make them look very good.”

“And the cafeteria staff complained that you’d been taking out a dozen bananas and several loaves of bread at a time. Again.”

“I like bananas,” Clint said. “Bananas are good.”

Coulson’s eyes narrowed slightly at that— more like a twitch. The effort it had taken to memorize those catchphrases, once he’d found out Coulson was a _fan_ , had more than paid off. It was satisfying to poke him in his nerdy side. God, and Clint, knew the man hardly ever rose to any other bait.

“Do you have any other nice things to say about me, sir?” Clint asked, before Coulson could get pissed off enough to actually seriously chew him out.

“We have another mission for you.”

Clint nodded. He’d expected that.

“Director Fury and I will brief you in the morning.”

He hadn’t expected _that_. Fury didn’t run many briefings. The last time Clint remembered had been six months ago, for a massive S.H.I.E.L.D.-wide attack against some Russian terrorists, or something. Clint himself had sat that one out, he’d been in Venezuela at the time. He wondered if Coulson had meant a plural _you_.

“It’s an assassination,” Coulson added.

Clint’s eyebrows went up at that, because that meant the answer to his last question was _no_ , but all he said was, “Yes, sir.” He knew from experience, getting anything out of Coulson that he didn’t actually want to divulge was nearly impossible.

*

When he reported to the conference room the next day, both Fury and Coulson were waiting for him. They were talking, and they stopped when he came in. He sat down without comment.

Fury got to the point immediately, which was one of the things Clint liked about him. “Agent Barton.” He slid a glossy photo across the table. “We want you to kill this woman.”

Clint took the photo. “She's young.” It was grainy, probably taken off of a security camera and magnified. She looked like she was about twenty. She was petite, with chin-length dark hair, but the powerful pistol she was holding belied the first impression of innocence.

“She's older than she looks-- she's been operating as an assassin for the last eight years. That picture's a few years old; it came from the ambassador’s residence in Barbados.”

Clint winced. He’d heard about that. “That was her?”

“Yes. And so was this.” Fury pushed a file folder across the table. “We can’t prove most of it, but what we can prove is more than enough.”

Clint opened the folder, and started to read the top sheet. “‘Code name Black Widow.’ She have a real name?”

“Not that we’ve been able to discover,” Coulson said. “Intel spent three months putting that file together. This is the best they could come up with.”

“We know she was directly responsible for the collapse of Project Coral,” Fury continued. “We think she also burned down a pediatrics ward in Moscow, and killed a politician there in front of his wife and kids. We think she's Russian, but we're not sure.”

Clint read through the file. Coulson and Fury waited, which he appreciated; it meant they wanted his insights on the mission, and not just his shooting ability. It didn’t take long. Like Fury had said, most of the things in the file were unsubstantiated. “Who trained her?”

“We don’t know,” Coulson said. “If she is Russian, she doesn’t appear to have come out of any of their regular agencies. She hasn't come out of _anywhere_ that we can find. She could be a civilian. We don't think she's reporting to anyone.”

Fury leaned forward. “It’s difficult to get a drop on her from a distance, but the last two people we sent after her, she killed in close combat. That’s why we’re sending you. Keep your distance, and take the shot.”

“Our intel puts her en route to Lithuania,” Coulson said. “We think she’s going to assassinate an ex-minister of finance in Klaipeda.

“You want me to stop her?”

“No. He’s an arms dealer and a smuggler. We want him dead, too. Let her get in and out, then take the shot.”

“Any questions, Agent?” Fury asked.

He shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Come back alive, Barton,” Fury said. “I’d hate for you to be the third S.H.I.E.L.D. agent she kills.”

“You and me both, sir.”

*

The first thing he did when he got to Klaipeda was find the ex-minister of finance and make sure he was still alive. He tapped his earpiece; the mission was important enough that they’d not only given him a handler, for just a simple assassination, but had put Coulson in that role. Coulson was coordinating a number of security feeds from a windowless room, where there was no chance he’d spook the Widow. “Do we have Palshys’s schedule for the day?” Clint asked.

“Transmitting what we have.”

Clint’s phone pinged a moment later. As far as S.H.I.E.L.D. knew, the man wasn’t planning to go anywhere the next day. So Clint scouted all around the compound, identifying possible entry points, assessing the security, and finding the holes. If the Widow held true to form— and if S.H.I.E.L.D.’s record of her kills was accurate— she would kill him at close range, probably with a gun or knife. He decided where he would have infiltrated, if he’d been in her place; then he retired to a nearby rooftop that allowed him to watch the whole compound. If Palshys’s security was any good, they would already know about that rooftop, and have it under surveillance. That was tricky; if someone showed up after Clint, and he took them out, Palshys’s security would react, which might spook the Widow. She probably had her mark under surveillance already; she might even have seen Clint, though he’d been careful. So he hunkered down among some old equipment on the roof, and hoped no one came to investigate or to kill him.

He watched debris dancing in the streets below, getting the wind patterns into his head. With the proximity of the Baltic, the breeze was strong enough to potentially throw off his shot. He wouldn’t get another if he missed.

He made a routine report to Coulson, and flipped the infrared goggles down over his eyes, scanning the area again. Then he took them off, because they interfered with his normal vision, and rested an arrow on the string. He was on his stomach, and his bow was horizontal in front of him. The concrete was cold beneath him, but he was able to ignore it.

He wondered how the Widow would die. A death was unique as a fingerprint; he’d never seen the same one twice. He would make it clean, if he could. He tried to make all of his kills clean. He’d succeeded, almost every time, but there were enough failures to keep him up at night. It didn’t bother him that he’d killed in cold blood; everybody died, sooner or later. It did bother him that he hadn’t done it perfectly. Even bad people could make a good end.

There was activity in the building below, what looked like a shift change. He pulled the infrared goggles over his eyes again and scanned the area. If he were the Widow, this was when he would strike, taking advantage of the lingering night and the confusion of the shift change. But there was no one lurking in the shadows around the building. He took the goggles off again, and waited.

There— sudden movement up the side of the building. How had she gotten inside the walls without him noticing? Or how long had she been there, waiting? The guards didn’t see anything as she climbed up to the second story window— they were watching for threats that were external, not someone already behind their lines. He watched as she opened the window— and an alarm went off, blaring all over the compound. But the Widow didn’t react, just climbed inside, as the guards started shouting. Of course— sloppy security. It was the same intruder alarm for any breach, all over the compound, and he was willing to bet they had more places alarmed than they could efficiently and quickly check. He saw lights go on inside the house, and the guards running up the stairs were clearly silhouetted. As they reached the landing, the Widow emerged from the window, grabbed the sill, and swung herself up to the roof. She ran across to the opposite corner and started to descend the other side.

He rolled to his feet. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t want the Widow killed at Palshys’s house. That would be too much of a coincidence to be believable, and might make some people start to wonder who was keeping tabs on them. If her body was found somewhere else, anyone who heard about it would assume one of her many competitors had caught up with her, or someone she had crossed had finally gotten the drop on her.

She cleared the compound while the guards were still tied up in Palshys’s bedroom. When they discovered his body, they raised an alarm, and two more guards sprinted out the front door, but she was already at the top of the wall. She looked over her shoulder at the guards, who didn’t see her, and landed lightly in the street below.

He followed her on the rooftops as she cut west along side streets, careful to stay away from any light source that could cast even a faint shadow on the street below. Did she have a boat waiting on the Baltic? He looked ahead as he ran, trying to see what was guiding her choices, and looking for a spot where he could ambush her. He almost missed the moment when she put on a wig— or maybe took off one— turned her clothes inside out, and put on a garish layer of lipstick, all while hurrying through the streets. If anyone had gotten a glimpse of her, they’d be looking for the wrong person, now.

There— up ahead was a long blind street, between two warehouses. She wouldn’t have any options to dodge, or turn off, and she seemed to be heading straight for it. Then she slowed, looking around, and a moment later he heard it, too. A kid was crying and screaming. He jumped over another narrow alley, and then he saw it— a man was beating a little kid in a back alley. His hand tensed on the string. If he shot the man, the Widow would notice, and he wouldn’t get another shot at her.

But if he didn’t shoot the man, he was going to keep beating the kid, and Clint wasn’t going to let that happen.

Wait. Where had she gone?

A blur moved across his line of fire— hell, it was the _Widow_ — she tackled the man, and her momentum carried them both three steps away from the kid. He had a clear shot at her, but he held his fire as she beat the shit out of the man. Then he held his bow in one hand and took a picture of the man’s face with the other. He sent it to Coulson. “I need an ID on this man, immediately.” He took up his bow again. The kid was cowering in the corner of the alley, whimpering.

The Widow had already pummeled the man past the point of resistance; now he was just curled up in a ball, trying to make as little surface area as possible for her to strike. But she was… she was leading with her left side, as if she’d hurt herself. Five minutes ago, she’d been fine, and he’d watched her scale a two-story building without any difficulty, also without a harness.

“Not coming up with anything, Barton. What’s going on?”

“Need a minute, sir.” He tapped his earpiece so it was locked in a non-transmitting position.

Some noise made the Widow stop, and look up. She didn’t see him, but whatever she did see made back away from the unmoving man. She went to the kid, who tried to cram himself even further against the wall. She said something in a language Clint didn’t understand, but whatever it was, it didn’t comfort the kid. They had a short conversation that ended when she reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder; he flinched, and she jerked away like she’d been burned. She got to her feet, stared at him, and said something else. He shook his head vigorously. She backed away, slowly, drew a pistol, and pointed it at the unmoving man. The kid shouted— Clint didn’t need to know the word to recognize the tone: _No_. He bit his own tongue, hard.

Finally the Widow lowered the gun and turned towards the mouth of the alley, looking… resigned, maybe, her shoulders slumped. Clint tightened the arrow on the string. Once she left the alley, he’d lose the best shot he’d gotten so far.

Clint looked at the kid hiding in the corner. There was an old bruise almost faded out of sight on the edge of his face. Clint thought about walking away, shooting the Widow, and calling it a day. Then he thought about waking up in a week wondering what had happened to the kid.

His bow had one very significant advantage over a pistol. It was much quieter. When he drew the string back to his jaw, aimed, and shot the unmoving man through the heart, the kid was crying too loud to notice. Then he jumped roofs again, going down one story, and raced forward, looking for the Widow. “Coulson.” He spoke as quietly as he could. “Pull my present location and send someone to pick up the kid. He may be an orphan. Need to figure out if he has any decent guardians left and if not, find him some.”

“I’m sure there’s a fascinating connection to your mission.”

Clint ignored that, because if Coulson was going to refuse, he would have done it already. There, below— he’d already passed her. He stopped, nocked another arrow, watched for a moment… and as she passed right by the wall of the warehouse, pinned her trouser leg to the wall with his arrow. He had a second one on the string before the first one had hit, and he sent that into the other side, effectively pinning her leg. His arrows were strong; she wouldn’t be able to break the shafts. She turned and shot upwards, but he was already moving, jumping down two stories to land in a crouch on the pavement. Her gun tracked towards him, he brought his bow up, and ducked her shot. “Shoot again and I’ll pin your wrist to the wall.”

She stilled, watching him with eyes that he could swear had a computer behind them, calculating his every move. Her finger kept up steady pressure on the trigger. She looked older than in the picture, but if Fury hadn't warned him, Clint would have sworn she was younger than he was. He was half-convinced as it was.

He’d pinned her left leg to the wall, and she had all her weight on her right leg as she tried to pull free. That was the leg she’d been favoring five minutes ago.

He chose his words carefully. “Why did you take down that man?”

She was surprised enough to let it show. “What?”

“The man with the kid, back in the alley.”

He could _see_ her run through possible answers, trying to figure out what was going on, analyzing her best way out. “He was hurting his kid.”

“You burned down a pediatrics ward.”

Surprise— then some expression he couldn’t read, and then a mocking smile. “Have you come to bring me to justice for that?” She had no accent, at least to Clint, which meant she had an American accent.

“I’m thinking about it,” he said. “Who trained you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “It’s worth more than my life to tell you.”

He was quickly running out of excuses not to shoot her, and it was frustrating, because— he didn’t _want_ to shoot her. _Damn_ , he thought, _this mission just went to hell in a handbasket_. Just? But she had to give him _something_. “Fine, let’s try this. Who brainwashed you?”

As a stab in the dark, it worked _beautifully_. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened a little, before she spoke. “I don’t,” she began, then maybe realized she’d already given herself away. “Who told you about that?”

“You didn’t have any problem scaling the wall back at Palshys’s place, and you’re not having any trouble now, but you were favoring your right leg when you beat the shit out of that guy.”

“That doesn’t mean I was brainwashed.”

He shrugged with his head, while keeping the bow steady. “So convince me I’m wrong.” This was dangerous, giving her enough that she could spin a story now that she knew what he wanted to hear. “Or maybe the next person who comes after you will have a bit of an edge on you.”

That got a response— a narrowing of her eyes. “Even monsters don’t like watching kids get hurt.”

It wasn’t convincing. “I’m pretty sure that one definition of a monster is that they do, actually,” he said drily. “So. Tell me, since we’re just chatting, here. Who made you?”

And that— he knew he had it right, then. The Black Widow had not trained herself. She’d been made as someone else’s weapon. “A little outfit called the Red Room,” she said slowly, still staring at him, still unsettled. “And now that I’ve told you that, I can’t let you live.”

Alarm bells were going off in Clint’s head, and not because she had managed to tear the fabric around the arrows most of the way through. _The Red Room_. He’d heard that name before, there was something-- “You satisfied with your current employment?”

Her honest surprise was a delight to behold. “You’re trying to _recruit_ me?” She gestured at the arrows. “You could have just asked nicely.”

“Put down your gun and I will.”

She smirked. “Nice try.” She tore herself free from the arrows. He didn’t move to stop her. She didn’t point the gun at him. “Who is it that wants to hire me?”

“I work for S.H.I.E.L.D.”

She stopped in the act of stepping away from the wall. “I’ve killed two of your colleagues.”

“More than that.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You were sent to kill me. And you think S.H.I.E.L.D.’s just going to let me waltz in as a dutiful employee?” Now the gun was definitely pointed in his direction.

“S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he said, “has an interest in the Red Room.” He wished like _hell_ he’d been in on that mission, so he could tell her more…

One of the most dangerous things in the world was a highly trained assassin who hadn’t made up her mind whether or not she was going to shoot him. “An interest in replicating it?” Her voice was low, and dangerous.

“No. No. The opposite of that. I’m not saying S.H.I.E.L.D.’s got much of a moral compass—“ witness their employment of him— “but they’re not big on brainwashing. Or child experimentation.”

“I will be dead before I let someone take apart my brain to figure out what happened to it.” The gun was shaking, just slightly.

He was in _way_ over his head but clearly he’d found what made the Black Widow tick. “You’re too valuable for that.”

Slowly, her hands stopped shaking. She’d made a decision— he didn’t know which way. “And what if I say yes?”

“I take you to talk to my boss.”

“He’s here in the city?”

“… he’s close enough.”

“What happens if he disagrees with your call?”

“Maybe he’ll shoot you. But you’re pretty damn good. I think you could make it hard for him.” He hesitated. “Here’s my offer,” he said finally. “One free pass. You come in, you talk to him. If things go south, I won’t try to stop you if you escape. Deal’s off if you hurt him, or me.” That would just leave Coulson for her to get past, and Coulson was formidable, but his most dangerous weapon was his brain.

_This might be the_ worst _idea I've ever had_. But it was too late to back out.

She slid her finger off the trigger. “Okay.”

His heart was pounding. Part of his brain was still trying to figure out what had just happened, trying to track the pattern of his snap calls made off of gut instinct, and figure out if she was playing him or what. “Okay,” he echoed. “We’re both trigger-happy, and we’re going to make a bunch of slow, calm movements so nobody gets shot. Put down your gun.”

It seemed to take a very, very long time for her to crouch down and put the gun on the ground. She slid it a few feet forward with her foot.

He wasn’t under any illusions that she was disarmed, but it was a start. “I’m going to radio in,” he said, carefully eased the bowstring into resting position, and held arrow and bow in one hand. He tapped his earpiece. “Hold off on retrieval of the body in the alley.”

“Copy,” Coulson said— and then the Widow’s eyes were narrowing again, and Clint released his earpiece, so it wouldn’t pick up her voice.

“What body?”

“I shot the man.”

There was that expression again, the one that he thought meant she was going through a number of possibilities very quickly in her head. “His kid begged me not to shoot him.”

“I know.”

She had an expression on her face that he couldn’t interpret. “Well?”

“Take out your backup gun, slowly, and put it with the others.”

She did so.

“How many other guns you got?”

“Just those.”

“What did you use to kill Palshys?”

“A knife. I left it sticking out of his chest.”

“Now your knives, then. Slowly.” She had an impressive number of them, in two wrist sheaths, an ankle sheath, and two knives at the small of her back. “What else are you carrying?”

“That’s it.”

He opened one of his pockets, and took out a pair of handcuffs. “Turn around,” he said. “Hands behind your back.”

She stared at him for long enough that he wondered if this was where everything went wrong, and then did so. He replaced the arrow, put his bow over his shoulder, and picked up her gun instead, as he approached, but she didn’t move. She let him snap the handcuffs around her wrists without flinching.

“I’m going to search you,” he said.

“If you grope me, I’ll kill you.”

He couldn’t see her face, but her voice was perfectly calm. He was pretty sure she was serious. “Okay. Wasn’t planning on it.” He crouched down, stuck the gun in his pants, and started carefully patting down her ankles. She stood perfectly still as he searched her, moving only to breathe. Finally he was satisfied that she was unarmed, and she seemed satisfied with the professionalism of his search, because he was still alive. He tapped his earpiece. “Incoming with a hostile. Clear to check the alley.”

There was a very _long_ pause. “Copy.” Coulson's tone held a wealth of nuance.

The sun was rising; they needed to get inside, away from curious eyes, and soon. He could steal and hotwire a car, but if he couldn't afford to take too much of his attention off the Widow. As he stashed all her weapons somewhere on his body, he figured out a route back to the safe house that would keep them on side streets and back alleys, where no one would ask awkward questions about the handcuffs. Then he tore a strip free from the bottom of his shirt. “I’m blindfolding you.” When she didn't react violently, he tied it around her eyes. It might not stop her from figuring out where the safe house was, but he wasn't going to skimp on precautions just because they might not be enough. He leveled her own gun at her. “The deal only applies after you talk to my boss. Try to escape, I'll shoot you.”

He guided her with a hand on her upper arm. She maintained the silence she'd kept since threatening to kill him. By the time they reached the safe house, they were attracting more attention than Clint was comfortable with, and he was glad to get off the street. The Widow hadn't stumbled once. She didn't even stumble on the stairs.

He knocked loudly on the door. A moment later the bolts scraped back, and Coulson opened the door, pistol in hand. He raised one very eloquent eyebrow.

Coulson could read lips. Clint mouthed the four words of the safe phrase, telling Coulson he wasn’t under duress. Coulson didn’t relax, but he did step back from the door, taking up a position against the apartment’s counter. Clint guided the Widow into the hallway, shut the door behind them, and redid the locks. Then he tugged the blindfold off.

Coulson's gun was on the counter beside him. Clint wondered if the Widow would underestimate him, this bland-looking man in a suit, and assume that he would be slow on the draw. She spared one glance for the apartment, then studied Coulson, eyes narrowed. Then: “If S.H.I.E.L.D. can get the Red Room out of my head, and help me take them down, I’ll work for them.”

Clint saw Coulson's surprise at the words _Red Room,_ but he recovered quickly. “What makes you think we’re interested?”

“You’ve sent three assassins after me. You think I’m good enough to be a threat. I’m also good enough to be an asset.”

After a moment, Coulson reached behind him for a tablet, and turned it so she could see it. Clint shifted so he could keep her at gunpoint and see the tablet himself. It was displaying pictures of carnage, a wrecked building with bodies all over the place. Some of them were very small. “S.H.I.E.L.D. took out the Red Room four months ago.”

Clint glanced back at her in time to see her eyes widen. She looked stunned. It was wild hope on the face of someone who'd forgotten what that felt like, or maybe had never known. Then her face went blank again. “Show me the rest.”

Obediently, Coulson flipped through the rest of the pictures. Some of them were very detailed photographs of corpses. The Widow sucked in her breath and held it.

Whatever she saw there seemed to convince her. She exhaled. “Were there any survivors?”

“No. They killed the children who were too young to fight.”

The Black Widow had a computer behind her eyes, but she was human enough to feel grief. Clint knew Coulson had seen it, too. “They--” She swallowed whatever was coming next, and the flicker of emotion disappeared. “How did you take them out?”

“Someone found and attacked their facility six months ago. They blew up part of the building. The Red Room took heavy casualties. We found them after they had relocated, and struck while they were still recovering. We took heavy casualties, too.”

The Widow started to smile as Coulson spoke, and it grew into a startled, manic, predatory, grin. “That was me. I blew them up.”

Coulson's eyebrows rose.

“It was a C4 bomb in the boiler room.”

Coulson nodded once, which meant her story matched what S.H.I.E.L.D. had found. “That wasn’t your first attack on the Red Room, was it.”

“It was my fourth.”

“What were the others?”

“Six years ago, I attacked their off-site server shortly after I broke out. I killed three of their trainers a year later. Two years after that, I attacked their base for the first time, after bribing a scientist to synthesize an antagonist to the brainwashing drugs based on blood samples I’d had taken right after escaping. None of the attempts were… successful.” It seemed to cost her some effort to say that. “Can you fix my head?”

“I think so,” Coulson said.

Clint wondered how the Widow would react to the uncertainty, whether it would make her uneasy, but Coulson’s honesty seemed to reassure her. “If you keep trying to kill me, I’ll cost you a lot more men. Fix my head, and I’ll work for you.”

“I need to make some calls,” Coulson said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Clint’s lips twitched at that, despite himself.

Coulson stopped at the threshold to the other room. “What’s your name?”

She answered without hesitation. “Natalia Alianovna Romanova.”

After Coulson had disappeared into the other room, and shut the heavy reinforced door firmly behind him, Clint waved the Widow over to the couch.

*

Coulson punched Fury's number into the video phone, adding every urgent override code he knew. The director looked irritated when he answered. Coulson spoke before he could ask questions. “Natalia Alianovna Romanova, aka the Black Widow, is the last known survivor of the Red Room.”

Fury was surprised enough to be silent for a second. “How do you know?”

“She told me.”

“You spoke to her?”

“She’s here in the safe house. Barton brought her in.”

“Alive? And _he’s_ alive?”

“They both appear uninjured.” He gave Fury a moment to digest that. “She wants to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. If we can deprogram her.”

“What happened to _killing_ her?” Fury demanded, irritated.

“Barton… didn’t.” He paused. “Her connection to the Red Room changes things, Director.”

Fury was silent.

“She claims to have led the attack on the Red Room that precipitated our own attack, and her story checks out. She mentioned three other attempts to take them down over the last six years.”

Fury thought for a minute. “You think we should bring her in. You think it’s worth the risk?”

_If she could be turned, she would become a powerful ally._ Coulson’s mind had an unfortunate tendency to irreverence at the worst times. “I think she deserves the same chance we were prepared to offer the other abductees four months ago. Even if the things she did weren’t all by their orders. And if she really broke free from them, she’d be a valuable counter-brainwashing resource.”

“Hmm.”

“Barton must have had a good reason to bring her in. I have no idea what it is, but I trust him.”

“She’s pretty,” Fury suggested.

He shook his head. “I don’t think that was his motivation.”

Fury considered. Then: “I’m trusting you on this one, Agent Coulson. Here's what we’ll do.”

*

The door and walls were reinforced enough that Clint couldn’t hear Coulson talking. He watched the Widow— watched Natalia Alianovna Romanova— watch him. He nodded at the beat-up couch. “Help yourself.”

She sat down, graceful and balanced even though her hands were behind her back, and leaned forward to take pressure off her shoulders. She kept watching him. He sat on the counter and watched her back. He appreciated that she could preserve an awkward silence. He looked her over, cataloging the details of her appearance in case he needed them later: she’d taken off a wig, not put one on, and her hair was a dark brown that he didn’t think was natural. The position of her arms behind her back had pulled her shirt away from her shoulder, and he could see an old bruise healing on her collarbone.

The minutes dragged on. He’d memorized the details of her face so that he’d know her anywhere, if they met again. Coulson hadn’t said how many calls he needed to make, or how long they would take. Clint wondered if the length was a bad sign.

Half an hour passed with no sign that Coulson was coming out any time soon. He was getting what would have been antsy if he’d ever permitted himself to get antsy. He hoped she wasn’t; a nervous, cornered assassin was a dangerous thing. “You want food?” he offered. “Or something to drink?”

“No.”

He was thirsty, so he cupped his hands under the tap and drank from them. He hunted until he found a can of pop, in the fridge, and then an unopened straw packet at the back of the drawer. He shoved the end table in front of her and showed her the pop and the straw. Then he opened both, put the straw in the can, and put it on the table. He went into the kitchen and pretended to look for something else. When he turned back around, she was leaning forward, drinking with urgency. He pretended not to see.

Could she kill a man with a drinking straw? That was probably a silly question. _How_ would she

kill a man with a drinking straw. Properly inserted, could it go through the eye into the brain? Or was it not rigid enough? Folded, it would be large enough to choke someone, but she’d need her hands free to do that, and if she had her hands free, there were easier ways.

There was a noise in the other room-- like something striking reinforced glass. He knocked. “Sir?” No answer. He tried the knob— it was open. “Coulson?”

The room was empty. A man was dangling outside the window, applying some sort of goo to the glass, which was slowly melting. Clint swore, and backed out before he was seen. There-- someone was giving the living room window the same treatment.

“Hey!” Romanova sprang to her feet and stepped through her handcuffs. “Your boss sold me out,” she snarled.

He shook his head. “No. He wouldn't do that. Besides, I'm here.”

“Are you willing to bet your life on that?” she demanded.

He grabbed her wrists and unlocked her handcuffs. “I just did.” He pressed her gun into her hands. “They’re coming through the other window too. We got maybe thirty seconds.” He swung his quiver to his shoulder and nocked an arrow.

“Is there anything in the other room that could help?”

Another figure swung down to hang beside the first one. “No.” Clint put his bow down long enough to activate his earpiece. “Boss, someone’s breaking in here, probably five or more. Send help! Oh shit, the door--” He ran for the door. There was no sound coming from beyond it; he grabbed the nearest table and jammed it in the doorway anyway. Then he ran back and crouched next to Romanova, the window and the door to the other room both in sight.

He timed his first shot just as the intruders smashed through the weakened window, and the momentum carried the corpse right into the person who’d been trying to swing in behind him. There was another smash— the other window. Then he heard something at the door. “They’re out front, too,” he grunted.

Romanova shot the third man at the window between the eyes. The door from the other room burst open in a hail of gunfire. They both dove for the ground in separate directions, and the man hesitated for a fatal second deciding which to go after. Romanova popped up and killed him with a single shot. The front door crashed in, and Clint whirled to kill two intruders with one arrow, uncomfortably aware that the only thing between him and a bullet in his back was the woman he'd been willing to kill less than two hours ago.

“GREN--”

Before she could get the second syllable out, there was an explosion behind him. Not a full-sized grenade, but enough to knock him off his feet and send him flying forward. He heard a _thud_ as Romanova hit the wall, and spared half a second to make sure she wasn't dead, as he rolled and staggered to his feet. More attackers appeared at the doorway and in the living room. He grabbed an arrow and stabbed the nearest one. He saw Romanova close with the nearest attacker, knocking his gun hand up and kicking him. Clint dove into the hallway and wedged the front door closed, then turned to aim into the living room, but the door crashed open again--

The two men in the living room fell dead with two shots. Clint looked up to see Coulson standing over him, wrist still braced. Romanova punched the last man in the kitchen and shot him when he staggered back. She turned, saw Coulson, and brought her gun up before he could get off a shot.

“Please put down the gun, Ms. Romanova,” Coulson said.

Slowly, Clint eased out of the way so he could stand up without being in the line of fire.

“You sold me out.”

“Give me credit for some competence. If I were going to sell you out, I wouldn’t let one of my own people get caught in the crossfire.”

She lowered the gun, fractionally. “Then who are they?”

“Let’s find out.” Coulson tilted his head in Clint's direction. Clint started to search the bodies.

After a minute, he held up a piece of paper. It had a bad picture of her-- even worse than the one S.H.I.E.L.D. had had-- along with an exorbitant figure, and some text in a language Clint couldn't read. “You have a price on your head?”

She looked at him like she was three steps behind. “I have a lot of prices on my head. They must have seen me when you marched me through the street, earlier.” She crossed her arms and stared at him.

“Recriminations later, flee now,” Coulson said. “What happened to the handcuffs?”

Clint looked down. Romanova had used them to kill one of the attackers, apparently. They were covered in blood and-- “The handcuffs are out of commission.”

Coulson followed his gaze and didn’t argue. “Car’s on the street. Let’s go.” He wasn't happy about the situation.

Clint took Romanova's gun off her, but there wasn't time to search her and he didn't know what she'd taken from the attackers. He sat in the back seat, where he could cover her, but she didn't try anything. They made it to a bland, modest hotel without any more trouble. Coulson got them a room; once they were all inside, he wedged some furniture against the door. “Are either of you hurt?”

“No,” Clint said.

Romanova shook her head once. There was blood drying on her face, but from the spatter pattern, it couldn't have been hers.

Coulson opened the briefcase he'd brought from the car. It held three full syringes. “This is what I want to get. M5-214. It's an experimental drug S.H.I.E.L.D. developed to counteract the effects of brainwashing. It also encourages honesty.”

“I’m not letting you inject me with a strange drug,” Romanova said.

Coulson raised an eyebrow. “If you want us to deprogram you, you’ll have to let us do it sometime.”

There was a pause. “There are three syringes. Inject him first.” She pointed to Clint.

Coulson looked at her. “He’s not brainwashed.”

“That’s the point.”

Coulson looked at Clint. He hesitated, shrugged, and rolled up his sleeve. Coulson swabbed his bicep with an alcohol wipe, then gave him the shot. It was true, what Coulson said— if he were going to take down Romanova, he wouldn’t let Clint get caught in the crossfire. Some S.H.I.E.L.D. agents might have, but not Coulson. But Clint figured the S.H.I.E.L.D. psychologists would have a field day if they knew Clint trusted Coulson to inject him with unknown chemicals.

They sat. And waited. And stared at Clint. “How do you feel?” Romanova asked him after a few minutes.

“Like… like something’s tickling the inside of my head.” He wrinkled his nose, then tilted his head from side to side, and scratched the back of his neck, trying to get at it. But it was _inside_. It was _there_ , but he couldn't reach that.

“Why did you kill that man in the alley?”

Was she taking advantage of the truth serum effect, or just making sure he was coherent? “Because he was a shitty bastard and didn’t deserve to live. It was the only way I could make sure he never touched his kid again, and still keep on your trail.” If he’d had more time, he might have scared the living daylights out of him and gotten the kid to safety, but he hadn’t.

“What did the Red Room use to keep you under control?” Coulson asked.

She looked at him. “Don’t you want to stick me with that first?”

“No.”

“They gave us monthly injections,” she said slowly. “There were two drugs. One was pale pink. One was grey. I…” She paused, looking as unsure as Clint had seen her look yet— which wasn’t very. “What do you want to know?”

“I’m trying to see if I can figure out what they were. How did they make you feel?”

“… docile. They sharpened my mind and dulled my will. I didn’t… I didn’t worry about anything, I didn’t have any anxieties. I just had the mission.”

“Your arm?” Coulson said.

She gave him a searching look, held out her arm, and rolled up her sleeve. He gently swabbed her skin, waited, and carefully injected the drug. It did not escape Clint’s notice that Coulson was more gentle with Romanova than he’d been with Clint. He supposed that made sense, under the circumstances.

“You should sit down.”

Romanova obeyed.

“What’s your name?”

“Natalia Alianovna Romanova.” Her voice was flat.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

Jesus Christ. Clint could do simple math-- twenty-three minus eight, twenty-three minus six-- and the difference was horrifying. He'd been in trouble when he was fifteen and a mercenary by the time he was seventeen, but he hadn't been a _brainwashed child assassin_.

“Where were you born?”

“I don’t remember. It’s blank.”

“How old were you when you joined the Red Room?”

Her mouth twisted. “No one ‘joins’ the Red Room. They kidnapped me. I think they’d been watching me for months.”

“How old were you when you were kidnapped?”

“Five.”

Jesus _Christ_. And he'd thought his own childhood had been horrifying.

“Why did they choose you?”

“Because I was clever, quick, and pretty.”

“When did they start injecting you?”

“As soon as I arrived.”

“Tell me about the circumstances of your leaving the Red Room.”

“I was on a mission in Krakow. It ran over by a week. They sent a trainer to give me my next injection, but she got caught in the crossfire. By the time it ended, I was two days late. And I, I woke up.”

“And what happened then?”

“I ran. I used everything they taught me and I disappeared. I… detoxed. And then I was free.”

“What have you been doing since then?”

“Paying the bills.”

“You have expensive bills,” Coulson said.

“Mercenaries aren’t cheap.”

That meant something to Coulson that it didn’t to Clint; his eyes narrowed, and he sat back and gave her a considering look. “In all your plans for taking down the Red Room, what were you going to do afterwards?”

“I was going to rescue the others. I would have looked after them while they detoxed. Taken care of them. As long as it took until they could stand on their own feet again. And then… maybe we would have gone our separate ways. We could have split the younger children up among us, I don’t know.” Her eyes were wide, and her voice expressive; either she was a terrific actress, or the truth drug was working. “But I failed them.” She sounded mournful.

“We tried to take them alive,” Coulson said. “But we couldn’t.”

She shook her head. “No. You would not have been able to.”

“What will you do now that the Red Room is gone?” Coulson asked gently.

“I… I don’t know.”

“Have you ever thought about retiring and becoming a civilian?”

She looked perplexed. Finally she looked up, brow furrowed. “I think I could _fake_ being good at being a civilian.”

“How do you feel about S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“I’m glad they took down the Red Room.”

“How do you feel about working for them?”

“It’s a job.”

“Would you be loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“I wouldn't betray them.”

“Are there types of missions you feel you’d be particularly good at?”

“I’ll do anything except kill children or have sex with a target. Those are my conditions. I don’t want to do that any more.” She shrugged. “I don't really give a fuck, but that was just to save them.”

Clint turned away to hide his reaction from her, because he was pretty sure if Romanova mistook his recoil for pity, she'd want to kill him.

“Did someone hire you to infiltrate S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“No.”

“What was the last job you took?”

“Trash can.”

Clint turned back time to see Coulson hand her the trash can before she started retching violently. She didn't have anything to bring up. She swallowed, eyes watering, and brushed past him to the bathroom, carrying the trash can. He heard the door close, and she started vomiting again.

Coulson looked after her thoughtfully.

“Side effect of the drug?” Clint asked. _His_ stomach felt fine, and he’d eaten a protein bar about an hour before Romanova had shown up at the compound.

“Yes… It’s particularly a side effect when someone’s been given the antagonist to M5-214 ahead of time.”

“Huh.” Had someone set them up? If so, he’d fallen for it…

“We need blood work off of her. And brain scans.” Coulson tapped his earpiece and called for extraction.

“There was never a possibility that S.H.I.E.L.D. would let her return to civilian life, was there?” he asked when Coulson was done speaking.

“No. She’s too valuable. And even if she wanted to, she owes us for the death of our people. So it’s a good thing she doesn’t want to.”

*

In between one heave and the next, Natalia woke up.

Maybe it was because she’d purged the drug through vomiting— unlikely— or maybe it was that the shock of learning the Red Room was destroyed, had worn off. Whatever it was, the world seemed to snap into focus. She was in a budget hotel in Lithuania, and her mission of six years was ended. Though not by her hand.

So what next?

The agent— Suit— no, Bow had called him Coulson— had asked her that. She'd been up against a superior and better-trained force with only surprise and desperation to her credit, so she'd often considered that her mission might end in failure. But she'd never expected that she would _survive_ the failure.

So what next?

She could easily take down Suit and Bow, and make a run for it— especially if Bow kept his promise to let her go. Would he? He’d have to be foolish to do so. But she was already half-convinced he was a fool. Either way, they wouldn’t be able to stop her, though she might-- she maybe-- she would leave them alive in return for what they’d given her. And then, go where?

She could take another job. Her skills were in high demand, and she’d be paid well. Then she would… stick the money in an account and let it sit. She had nothing to use it for. There were no more scientists to bribe, or mercenaries to hire. There were no Red Room refugees who needed help and shelter. They were all dead.

She could run away and lay low. Find a quiet spot somewhere, somewhere warm, maybe with a beach, and a boat for quick getaways. She had enough money to live for a long time, if she lived simply in some underdeveloped country. She wouldn’t have to take more than a job every few years. And then… what? Sixty years of unbroken solitude, always looking over her shoulder? Just her, and her ghosts, and no distractions?

She’d rather be _dead_.

She’d failed the only mission that had ever mattered. She’d been the only one to get out, and she’d failed to go back and save the rest.

_So find some other people who need saving,_ _and don’t fail them_.

That was ridiculous. She wasn't anybody's white knight.

But maybe she could go with Suit and Bow, and work with them for a while. Become a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Go respectable. Work off some of the debt she could never pay to her dead-- to the others. S.H.I.E.L.D. could use her skills. But would she trust them to point her in the right direction as a weapon? What if they used her like the Red Room had used her, or worse?

Bow trusted them— he trusted Suit beyond reason. And he’d killed the abusive man in the alley. But that didn’t mean much; maybe he just couldn’t be trusted to point himself. Maybe he really was a fool. His trust didn’t prove anything about whether S.H.I.E.L.D. was trustworthy or not. Whether or not they were trustworthy _enough_.

As long as she kept her brain clear, if she had to run, then no organization in the world would be able to stop her. Even the Red Room hadn’t been able to manage that. If they drugged her— if they took advantage of the deprogamming to _reprogram_ her--

They couldn’t keep her under indefinitely. One day, she would wake up. Then she would get out. And then she would burn S.H.I.E.L.D. to the ground.

There was a knock on the door. “You okay?” It was Bow.

She knotted the trash bag and threw it into the other trash can. Then she flushed the toilet, washed her hands and face, and rinsed out her mouth. She opened the door. Immediately, her mind filled with ways she could kill him and move on to his boss before he’d drawn another breath. She shoved them aside. “Fine.”

He looked down. “Sorry about your pants.”

She stared at him. He had actually said that. As if it _mattered_.

“We’re leaving,” he continued, and stepped back, so she could come out of the bathroom.

“Can I have my weapons back?”

“Uh, no.”

It had been worth a try. She slid past him and addressed Suit, who seemed to be the brains of the operation—

Although she shouldn’t let her opinion of Bow’s judgement influence her evaluation of his intelligence. He’d been frighteningly perceptive in figuring her out, from ridiculously scant clues. She almost couldn’t believe he hadn’t been briefed beforehand. But, after hearing her out, they’d seemingly changed their minds about her summary execution. Either Bow was really as perceptive as he seemed— and just a fool— or S.H.I.E.L.D. was playing a very long game with her.

That wasn’t out of the question.

— She addressed Suit, with a slightly revised evaluation of his and Bow’s respective strengths: “Where are we going?”

“To a S.H.I.E.L.D. base, to do a physical evaluation to corroborate your story. Or not. Nothing’s been decided yet.”

“If you decide I’m lying, I’m not sticking around for you to kill me.” As it was, the remnants of the Red Room in her head, were clamoring for her to kill them and get out. She was doing something foolish, she was going against her training, she was _a failure, Natalia_ \--

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Bow sat behind her in the car again. She was fully aware that he had her own gun trained on her. They drove far out of town to a small airstrip, where there was a stubby jet waiting for them. There was also a squad of six soldiers, in black uniforms that she didn't recognize. She studied them as they walked her across the tarmac. The soldier in front handed Suit a pair of handcuffs. Obediently, she let him cuff her again.

Suit turned aside to talk to the pilot; at the same time, there was a disturbance in the group of soldiers. One of them shoved to the front and stared at her. “Are you the Black Widow?” he demanded.

“Agent Lyon, is there a problem?” Suit's tone would have frozen the blood of anyone paying attention.

But Lyon was too distracted to notice the implicit threat. “You killed my partner, you _bitch_!”

He lunged for her. She dropped her center of gravity, fell onto her bound hands, rolled onto her shoulders, and planted her feet squarely in the middle of his chest. Already overbalanced, he fell. She used her momentum to continue her roll, getting out from under him and bringing her legs through the cuffs in the same motion. The soldier staggered to his feet, still overbalanced and now disoriented, and she brought her bound wrists over his head, pressing the chain to his throat. It would be so easy to kill him. It was difficult _not_ to kill him. The Red Room was clamoring for her to eliminate the threat--

“ _Hold your fire!_ ” Suit shouted.

The other five soldiers had their guns leveled at her, but Lyon was between them and her, and if they went for a head shot she could duck and use his body as a meat shield. In her peripheral vision, she saw Bow with an arrow on the string, pointed straight at her. _He_ had a clear shot. If she hauled Lyon around to be between her and Bow, the other soldiers would be able to hit her, but if she dragged him backwards until he was in Bow’s line of fire, too, she would be closer to the car and to escape. But something told her Bow wouldn't have any problem firing around her meat shield. Or through. She could grab Lyon's pistol, shoot Bow, and make a run for the car before Lyon recovered.

But she hesitated.

“Barton, cover Lyon,” Suit ordered. Bow shifted to aim at her captive, not her. “Ms. Romanova, release Lyon and step back.”

She stared at him. Her heart was racing, and her breathing was fast. She wasn't safe. They'd tried to kill her. They'd seen her hesitate. They'd seen her weakness. She needed to run. The clamor in her head was calling for her to _kill them all_ , but she just wanted, she just wanted _out_ \--

She met Barton's gaze. Why had he taken a chance on her and brought her in? What was it-- _was_ it foolishness, that let him stand so unafraid and so calm? This man, she was certain, did not fear the shadows in his own head.

“Barton has him covered,” Suit said. “Release him. Now.”

She turned to look at Suit. Then she glanced back at Barton. She let the pressure on Lyon's throat slack, pulled her handcuffs over his head, and shoved him away. He fell to his knees, gagging and gasping; he wasn't going to be attacking her again any time soon.

As soon as Lyon had fell to the ground, she'd seen fingers tightening on triggers. Was Suit's authority going to hold? Deliberately, he stepped in front of the soldiers and walked towards her until he could stand over Lyon. The soldiers relaxed their weapons. They didn't look happy about it.

“Lieutenant, see to your soldier. He won't be continuing on this mission.”

The lieutenant waved two soldiers forward, one of whom gave Suit a mutinous look and her a hate-filled one. Barton's bow, which he'd lowered to avoid aiming at his boss, drifted up again as the soldiers came within striking distance of her. She took two steps back and waited for another attack. It didn't come. They bent over Lyon and helped him to his feet, supporting nearly all of his weight.

“Sir, I'd like to leave another soldier here to look after Lyon,” the lieutenant said. “The prisoner has incapacitated him.” She gave Natalia a cool look.

“It was self-defense, Lieutenant. He attacked a bound prisoner in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody.”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant agreed dutifully.

“Permission granted. Leave him here to recover. Let’s go.”

They escorted her onto the jet. If they'd wanted her dead, they could easily have used that incident as excuse. Coulson could have let the soldiers shoot her. Just because they didn't want her dead didn't mean they were trustworthy. The Red Room hadn't wanted her dead, either. But it was something.

Back there, she'd hesitated because she'd been reluctant to shoot Barton. Out of gratitude? That was weakness. That was weakness, wasn't it? She couldn't afford weakness, or sentimentality. But she didn't actually regret it.

She'd feel better when she knew what he wanted from her in return. Maybe it was sex. Frequently, it was sex. But she hadn't caught him staring, yet, him or the other one. If that _was_ what Barton wanted, he was going to be disappointed. Unless she could get something out of it, she wasn't going to fuck him. If she could get by-- get ahead-- at S.H.I.E.L.D. without it, she wasn't going to fuck anyone. Sex made a great weapon, but it lacked something as a toy.

Barton certainly wasn't staring at her now. He looked like he was sleeping. One of the soldiers gave him an incredulous, resentful look, either because he was asleep, or because he was relaxed enough _to_ sleep. She was not lulled into a false sense of security. She had no doubt he'd be awake and alert half a second after any disturbance.

They stopped in western France to transfer to a larger plane. The second flight was longer, and when they landed again, the air that came up the open ramp was warm and humid. When the soldiers marched her down the ramp, the sun was bright, about halfway between the zenith and the horizon. She did some rapid mental calculations and decided they were probably in the central United States.

She was met by another squad of soldiers-- it was amusing how they thought numbers would be enough to stop her-- and two people in civilian clothes. The man with the grey hair introduced them. “Welcome to our facility. I'm Dr. O'Leary, and this is Dr. Rosales. We'll be running a battery of physical and psychological examinations on you.”

She looked them over carefully. The woman looked younger, early thirties or so. “I want Agent Coulson there.” It came out as a croak, the first thing she'd said in hours.

“That was never in doubt,” Coulson said cheerfully, joining them. He smiled at her reassuringly. She felt a stab of contempt that he thought she wanted _re_ assurance. It wasn't that she trusted him. She just mistrusted him less than anyone else she'd met so far. Except Barton, but Coulson had more pull.

Let them think what they wanted. Misinformation was always on her side.

They searched her again on the tarmac. Then they marched her inside to a medical bay that looked like it had been hastily cleared of patients. More people in civilian clothes-- they looked like technicians-- were setting up some of the many machines in the room.

Agent Coulson, and the head of the large guard she'd accumulated, were having a quiet conversation by the door. She didn't think it was an accident that they were standing right next to a machine that was beeping loudly, where she couldn't hear them. It looked like an argument: the soldier was requesting, or suggesting something, and Coulson was refusing. The soldier made an _on-your-head-be-it_ gesture and motioned his men out of the room. Before the door swung closed behind the last one— and clicked with the unmistakable sound of a heavy lock— she saw them taking up positions outside the room.

“Ms. Romanova, we’re going to need you to disrobe,” Dr. O’Leary said. One of the techs handed her a paper gown. Was that why Coulson had sent the soldiers away? To preserve her modesty, her _honor_? He was just as much of a fool as Barton was if he thought she cared about that.

But she cared, a little, about the privacy. Maybe he wasn't a fool.

She stripped off her shirt and stepped out of her pants. A gloved tech took both from her, probably for forensic analysis. She looked down at her leg. Barton’s arrows had pinned her thigh without any slack, but they hadn’t broken the skin. She was suddenly glad she hadn’t bet her life against his aim.

She stared at Coulson as she unhooked her bra and pulled her panties down. _Ha_ , she thought, when he looked up, but his gaze flicked up to her face without interruption, lingered for a moment as if they'd been discussing the weather, and then returned to his tablet. It was… novel. She pulled on the gown and lay down on the bed. They rolled her into a scanner and told her to take shallow breaths.

It was a narrow tube and a very long scan. She kept her eyes closed until they told her to stare at the light overhead, and then electrodes snaked out and attached themselves to her head. When that was done, they pulled her out and handed her a tube and a stick.

“Cheek swab,” the tech said. She ran the thing around the inside of her mouth and handed it over. Then they handed her a pile of clothes and a large plastic container and pointed to a door marked “Restroom.”

“Urine sample, please,” Dr. O’Leary said.

“What if I don’t have to go?” she asked innocently.

He looked up. “Our equipment can process samples of only a few milliliters,” he said firmly, so she subsided.

In the restroom, she discovered that the clothes were grey scrubs, and the undergarments were exactly the right size— they must have gotten the size off what they’d taken away. Apparently Barton wasn’t the only detail-oriented agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. It amused her to think of a vast stockpile of women’s underwear, in many sizes, somewhere in the bowels of this enormous base.

She filled the container without difficulty, since it had been hours since she’d last seen a restroom, and handed it to the tech who was waiting when she came out. They gestured her to a chair that was surrounded by IV poles.

“We’re going to take some blood,” one of the techs told her, swabbing the back of her hand with alcohol. That much had been obvious, but Natalia found that she actually appreciated being told. It was-- she thought it was considerate. That was also… novel.

They drew four vials of blood and then turned her over to Dr. Rosales, who apparently was the psychologist. They had left the port in place, and now inserted another needle into her arm, so that her blood left her hand, passed through some sort of monitoring device, and returned to her body. Natalia felt increasingly uneasy. She was confined in a strange place, hooked up to strange machines, and they were inserting things in her _body_. Why the _hell_ had she consented to this? It wasn't that far to the door. The techs and doctors probably wouldn't know how to fight. If she could overpower Coulson, she could use him as a hostage to get past the soldiers?

“Do you want to see?” Dr. Rosales asked. Without waiting for a reply, she opened the monitoring box. Natalia watched her blood flow through the narrow tube, where it passed over a variety of fine wires inserted into it. She couldn't be sure the wires were only sensors, but there was n other reservoir of fluid like they'd need if they were putting a drug in her system.

The doctor closed the box, and attached electrodes to Natalia's head. “I'm afraid this is going to pull when we remove them.”

“I don’t care.”

Dr. Rosales took her place behind the adjacent array of monitors. “Agent Coulson, we’re ready for you.” She frowned at the monitors, then gave him a sharp look.

So that was why he had been so ready to accompany her here. They’d put sensors inside her own body— essentially— and it felt like a betrayal, but the Red Room had taught her mechanisms to influence even her involuntary responses. She did not allow herself to give away any apprehension at what might be next.

Coulson dragged over a chair and tapped at something at the tablet. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions,” he said. “Nothing difficult. Just pretend the sensors aren’t there. What is your name?”

“… Natalia Alianovna Romanova.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Where was the last place you lived?”

“I don’t trust you with that information.” She still had her best safe house there.

She waited for him to press the point. He didn't.

She thought he was going to press the point, but he moved on with a battery of simple questions. Finally he nodded to Dr. Rosales, and she came out from behind the monitors carrying a syringe.

“What’s that.” Her voice came out more sharp than she'd intended.

Coulson looked up quickly from the tablet, but it was the doctor who answered. “It’s M5-214. It’s the same thing Agent Coulson injected you with earlier.”

“Is it safe to have two doses?” Why the fuck was she even asking, they could tell her anything they wanted--

“It breaks down very quickly,” Dr. Rosales assured her, and cleaned the inside of her left elbow.

This time she felt the tickling in her brain that Barton had mentioned. It made her tense. This was a terrible situation. She never should have let them talk her into this. _Natalia, you are a fool_. She would take out Coulson first, then use him as leverage. Once she got free she would lie low for a while, and--

But she didn't move, because that voice telling her she was a fool hadn't been her own. This might be a terrible choice, but it was _her_ choice.

“What's your name?” Coulson asked for the third time.

She looked at him. _You've got to be kidding me._ “Natalia. Alianovna. Romanova.” She enunciated quite clearly. “Would you like me to spell it for you in Cyrillic?”

“No, thank you. How old are you? In Arabic numbers.”

She let herself roll her eyes. “Twenty-three.”

“Where were you born?”

“I still don’t remember.”

“How old were you when you joined the Red Room?”

“I was kidnapped when I was five.”

“Why you?”

For all their ostensible care for her _comfort_ , they might have skipped making her answer that question twice. “They thought I’d make a good assassin,” she said tiredly. “They only took the girls they thought had promise. The clever, quick, and pretty ones.”

“Only girls?”

“Yes.”

“You mentioned that they kept you under control by means of injected drugs. When did they start injecting you?”

“I remember waking up in an infirmary and screaming for my parents.” She just wanted this to be over with, wanted them to stop making her relive it. “They gagged me and stuck me with the needles in the same moment.”

“What effect did the drugs have on you?”

She shrugged, with one shoulder only. “I didn’t scream for my parents any more.” She hadn’t wanted to. She hadn’t missed them. She’d been docile, and complacent.

“And you received these injections monthly until you were seventeen?”

“Yes.”

“What happened then?”

“I missed one. The effect wore off. I ran away.”

“What happened after you ran away?”

This man, with his calm, pleasant voice, was determined to drag all the painful details out of her. “I collapsed in a deserted warehouse in Amsterdam and stayed there for a month until it was all out of my system.”

“How did you know it was all gone?”

“The fever and the hallucinations stopped.”

“What did you do then?”

“I decided to destroy the Red Room.” She was talking more than she had in the hotel room. She wasn’t sure if they’d given her more of the truth serum, or she just wanted to give them what they wanted to get it over with. “I attacked their off-site server backup in Belgrade. Then I bribed a scientist to synthesize an antidote to the drugs, and snuck back into their facility.”

“What happened then?”

The memories swum up. She took a deep breath and spoke without emotion. “I managed to inject six girls before I was noticed. For four of them, the shock was too much.” She remembered them collapsed on the floor, screaming— _No_. There was no benefit from thinking of it. “The other two were disoriented and were cut down in the fighting. I killed three of their trainers and barely escaped.” She didn’t know what the Red Room had done to the four girls she’d tortured in her attempt to help. She didn’t think their minds would have stood another whiplash like drugging them again would have caused, but she didn’t think they could have stood the shock of free will, either. Either way, they were dead. She hoped their deaths had been quick and painless, and that the Red Room hadn’t taken them apart and probed them to see exactly where the breakdown had occurred as their minds dissolved beneath the—

“Ms. Romanova?”

She snapped abruptly back to the medical bay at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s base. Coulson was watching her with concern. “Please repeat the question,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster.

“I hadn’t asked one,” he said gently.

_Fuck you._ _For daring to pity me. You… suit_.

“In Klaipeda you mentioned two more attempts you made against the Red Room.”

“Yes. After that, they started sending hit squads after me. The first ones tried to take me alive. The later ones just tried to kill me. I infiltrated the Russian government and caused a crisis I knew they would send someone very good to deal with; the Red Room never liked their pet politicians getting out of hand. When she arrived, I killed her and wrote a message for the others on the wall in her blood. They stopped bothering me.” She hesitated. “I don’t know if you can call that an attempt against the Red Room. It was self-defense.”

“And the fourth?” Coulson prompted after a minute.

“I hired twenty excellent mercenaries to back me up with a frontal assault while I infiltrated the facility. I set a bomb meant to kill as many of the trainers as possible. I… hunted down…” She paused for too long, trying to find the right word. “The head of the program. We fought. I hurt her, but I couldn’t— she wouldn’t go down. Again, I barely escaped with my life.” The irrational feeling that Madame had let her live still haunted her.

“And the mercenaries?”

“They all died. That wasn’t surprising. I paid their families well.” It had exhausted all her funds to do so, and she’d started taking high-profile jobs to replenish her stock, like the job that had— apparently— caught S.H.I.E.L.D.’s attention. “How did _you_ take them out?”

“We recirculated knockout gas at five-minute intervals and sent two hundred soldiers— twice their number— with gas masks. We still lost a third of them.”

Natalia thought of her-- thought of the others, fighting a valiant rearguard action against the people who were trying to help them. She pictured hapless black-clad soldiers getting their throats slit by shadowy figures slipping through the fog of the gas. “Are you sure you killed everyone? The heads of the program—“

“No one escaped by land or air, and there were no secret tunnels.”

She digested this. _Madame, dead. Ivan, dead_.

_Natalia, alive_.

It gave her a warm feeling.

Sudden suspicion struck her. “If S.H.I.E.L.D. took the facility, why did you need to ask me about the drugs?” She'd seen the photographs-- no one could have gotten close enough to the Red Room to fake those, and still lived, and not even They could fake an operation of this size and complexity, but--

“They set a fire in the medical bay. It destroyed all the chemicals that were kept there, and all the records. We couldn’t even pick up chemical traces of remnants. We did forensic examinations of the bodies, but many of them were badly burned. We found certain unusual metabolite accumulations that indicated long-term drug administration, but nothing informative.”

“I’m going to throw up.”

Coulson handed her a trash can— again. She retched, but she hadn’t had anything to eat since— since before the last time this drug had made her vomit. In about twenty-four hours, in fact. She was beginning to feel dizzy.

“Agent Coulson.” Dr. Rosales's tone was sharp. Coulson hurried to her side, leaving Natalia clutching the trash can, feeling very tired and very foolish. She had no idea what she was doing there. Why the _hell_ was she letting these people accumulate data on her?

… she lost track of time and seemed to come back to herself with a jolt of adrenaline as she heard Coulson and Rosales talking. Had they drugged— no. She’d felt the effects of fatigue, hunger, stress and sickness before. This was no more than that.

Their conversation ended. Dr. Rosales waved one of the techs over from where they’d been huddling in an adjacent room. Gently, they disconnected her from the machine, and removed the port from her arm, taping a bandage securely over the wound. Dr. Rosales removed the electrodes from her hair, and apologized for the way it tugged. Natalia had no idea why the hell she was doing that. Coulson came over from the monitors and offered her his hand. She stared at it.

“You can get up now.”

“… oh.” She tried to stand, discovered how dizzy she was, and ended up needing to grab his arm after all, a weakness that disgusted her.

“Just come down the hall,” he said, in a tone that was probably meant to be soothing or bracing or some other pablum that she didn’t need. “We have something that will make you feel better. Can you walk?”

“Wh-- Of course I can _walk_.”

They took her to a wing with a row of identical, closely-spaced doors. Coulson swiped his badge through the access port of one of them, then pressed his palm to the scanner that popped up and let it scan his iris. The door slid back, revealing a cell with a tiny bathroom attached. There was a bed, a table, and a tray on top of the table. He motioned her forward into the room.

She looked from the tray to him. “Is this a test?”

“No. It’s a sandwich.” It was a large sandwich; there was also a large bottle of water. “If you need something, press the button next to the door. I recommend you try to sleep. Good night, Ms. Romanova.”

She stared after him as the door slid shut. It was late afternoon here, but she was still running on Lithuanian time, and she was exhausted. She took the top piece of bread off the sandwich and inspected it: it looked fine, and it smelled fine. She systematically poked through all the layers. But if S.H.I.E.L.D. had wanted to drug her, they had had ample opportunity when she was hooked up to their machines.

She devoured the sandwich, drained the water bottle, refilled it from the tap, and drained it again. There was a tiny shower, with everything needed to use it in a pile by the sink, and a fresh set of clothes on the bed. She snorted; it was like a hotel, except with more interrogations.

She checked the bathroom for cameras, then turned the water up as hot as it would go. The visceral impact hit her all at once. The Red Room was _gone_. The _Red Room_ was _gone_. They could never, ever get their hands on her again. They could never drag her back.

She was free.

She was free, and with the Red Room gone, she could defeat anything S.H.I.E.L.D. threw at her.

She was also shaking, even though she was practically scalding herself. She washed, tugged on the clean clothes, and crawled under the heavy blanket. She shook for a long time before she fell asleep.

*

Clint wasn’t surprised when he was escorted away from the airplane by what was not quite an armed guard, but what was certainly guards who were armed. They were met at the elevators by someone he recognized-- though he didn't know what she was doing _there_ , and not up north. “Carter,” he greeted her cheerfully.

She held out her hand. “Let me carry that bow for you, Barton. It must be heavy.”

He stared hard at her. She stared back. The soldiers around them shifted uneasily. Finally he swung his quiver off his shoulder, and handed it to her along with his bow. “Be _careful_ with that.”

“I’ll take it to your quarters,” she promised. “I can’t believe you brought in the Widow, Barton.”

“I’m very talented,” he offered, though her tone had not been admiring.

She gave him a hard look, but didn’t respond as she turned away.

“Where am I going?” he called after her.

“I think you know!”

He did know. They took him to the psych ward, made him strip, and gave him a flimsy paper gown. Then they wired him up with electrodes and stuck him in a metal tube. He didn’t mind enclosed spaces but he preferred them to be elevated. They flashed a random pattern on the screen above him and told him to concentrate on it. He did, for a while.

“Did you know that I can tell from your brain patterns when you’re bored?” the tech said over the intercom.

He rolled his eyes.

“Don’t _move_.”

Eventually, they let him out, gave him back his clothes, and gave him the number of the conference room to which he was to report. Director Fury was inside, looking extremely unamused.

Clint sat down.

“Congratulations. You’re not brainwashed. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t can your ass right now,” Fury said.

“For which of my good deeds are you stoning me, sir?”

Fury stared balefully. It was actually pretty intimidating.

Clint relented and became serious. “Where do you want me to start, sir?”

“Start with the part where you disobeyed your kill order.”

“I had reason to believe my intel was incomplete.”

Fury sat back. “Explain.”

“I watched the Widow enter the target’s house and kill him. When she fled, I pursued across the roof tops. I caught up to her when she turned into a blind alley, where a man was beating his kid, and half-murdered the man.”

Fury made a go-on gesture.

“I cornered her, restrained her, and asked her who had brainwashed her. Her attempts to convince me that I was wrong were, um, uninspired.”

“What made you think she was _brainwashed_?”

“The details didn’t add up, sir. She broke cover to beat the shit out of a man with no apparent connection to her. I verified with Agent Coulson that he had no record of any kind. He wasn’t anyone. Her previous history didn’t indicate any soft spot for kids. So, why?”

“That’s pretty damn flimsy evidence, Agent.”

Clint started to get frustrated, because Director Fury wasn’t listening. “The details _didn’t add up_ ,” he said, and watched Fury understand, watched him realize what it meant when Clint Barton said the details were wrong. “She’s the Eastern Hemisphere’s best infiltration expert. Maybe the world’s. She was five minutes past killing a target, the streets were swarming with his men, the last thing she should have been doing was drawing attention to herself. Yet she did, for a kid she didn’t know.”

“Not everyone who saves kids is a good guy, Agent Barton.”

Clint gave that the stony stare it deserved. He didn’t care if Fury gave him a dressing-down for it. That had been out of line. Maybe it was wrong to think that about your superior officers, but Clint had always had a problem with authority.

Fury unbent slightly. “What else?”

“When she beat the man, she was favoring her right side. I watched her climb into a second-story window five minutes before, and then escape over a wire-topped wall, without difficulty. When I caught up with her a minute later, and she tried to get away, she was fine. When she was beating the man, she was having some sort of… psychosomatic muscle memory. Flashback. Something.”

Fury crossed his arms across his chest. “So she had an abusive childhood. Still doesn’t mean she was brainwashed.”

“No,” Clint said quietly. “You didn’t see this, Director. She wasn’t just vicious, she was _frustrated_. She was, she was taking out an old vengeance on this guy. There’s no one person in the world, or one family, the Widow couldn’t go back and kill if she wanted revenge. Maybe they died before she got the opportunity, but how likely is that? And we’d never found out who trained her; someone in a league of her own like the Widow, someone who could _train_ someone like that, should have left traces somewhere. But there was nothing.”

Fury narrowed his eyes, but didn't speak. Clint took that as a good sign, and continued. “You said she was older than she looked, but she wasn't. The lines on her face, with no sign of plastic surgery. The timbre of her voice. The state of her hands. All of it was consistent with someone in her mid-twenties at the latest. You said eight years, well, teenaged kids do not just up and decide to become assassins for no reason.”

The door slid open behind him, and he turned to see Coulson enter. He was relieved. But his handler— his friend, if Clint was being honest with himself— was wearing his bland, professional face, the one that meant Clint was also facing a reckoning from him, in addition to Fury. Coulson wasn’t going to back him up to Fury, not until he was convinced. Clint was on his own.

“Where is she now?” Fury asked.

“In one of the cells. Asleep, unless she rigged the monitor.” Coulson took up a position against the wall.

Fury turned back to Clint. “You were saying, Agent?”

“When I confronted her, I got her to tell me she’d been trained by the Red Room. That was when I decided to bring her in. I knew S.H.I.E.L.D. had been involved with them a couple months ago, and if she was a defector, she could be valuable.”

“She is the _only_ known defector,” Fury said. “Doesn’t that seem fishy to you?”

“Sir, with all due respect, it took three S.H.I.E.L.D. agents before I could pin her down enough to get her to admit it, and even then it was dumb luck. What are the odds of us finding out that another freelancer is ex-Red Room?”

“Hmm,” Fury said. “Coulson?”

“Her tests are consistent with her story.”

There was more to it— Clint could tell from a sidelong glance at Coulson. But he was waiting for Fury to finish.

“Even if she was brainwashed and trained by the Red Room,” Fury said, “she’s still responsible for the kills she’s made since then. And if her story is accurate, that’s been everything in the last six years.”

“She was using the money to finance attacks on the Red Room,” Coulson said. “I’ve pulled our surveillance reports on them. The timing lines up, and I’ve started a trace on the scientist she used to synthesize the antidote.”

“The ends do not justify the means.”

“Where was a seventeen-year-old escaped brainwashee going to go for moral guidance?” Clint demanded. “Sir, I’m familiar with the choices desperate teenagers make when they feel like they don’t have any, and none of them are pretty.”

“Agent Barton, I’m concerned with the degree to which you are identifying with Ms. Romanova. Your situation is not analogous to her.”

He shrugged. “It’s true, the only kids _I_ ever killed were by accident, but we’re here to talk about her, not me. Director Fury, you asked for my explanation; I’ve given it to you. And, if it works out, possibly the best intelligence coup of the year. Are there any points on which you would like clarification?”

Fury pursed his lips. “No,” he said finally. “Agent Barton, you’re playing with fire here.”

“Yes, sir,” he said dutifully.

“Dismissed.”

Coulson walked with him a little ways. “Clint, S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t just take in every stray with a troubled past.”

Clint looked sideways at him. “No?”

“You heard Director Fury. Your situations are not analogous.”

“Sir, do you remember Johannesburg differently? Because I remember you waltzing into my tent after sneaking past the sentries, offering me a job, and then threatening to shoot me if I didn’t come in.”

“I didn’t threaten to shoot you.”

“Yes you did, sir.”

Coulson changed tacks. “It would only have been a flesh wound. And I _didn’t_.”

“No, you only engineered a situation where I had to rescue you or watch you die.”

“Barton, how many times do I have to tell you that I did not set up that encounter?”

“At least one more, sir.” They came to an intersection, and turned the other way. “Can I have my bow back, sir?”

“It’s waiting for you in your quarters.”

“Good. I feel naked without it.”

“Professionalism doesn’t allow me to answer that as it deserves, Barton. Get some rest. You’ve had quite a mission.”

 


	2. Missouri

She woke up and had to fight to keep from panicking. Not because she didn't know where she was; because she did. In the bowels of a S.H.I.E.L.D. base, on American soil, _voluntarily_.

She could probably get out, but if she were discovered, she'd have to fight her way through a sizable chunk of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s forces, and eventually they might get lucky with sheer numbers. If Barton was on-base and she had to go through him, she might really be in trouble. And if she did blow her way out, S.H.I.E.L.D. was never going to forgive and forget. Whatever came after her next time would be more than one very deadly man with a bow.

None of that was sufficient reason to stay. But she wanted something from S.H.I.E.L.D., and for them to give it to her, she had to stick around. Voluntarily. As a prisoner, and as _herself_ , Natalia, not as some fake identity who really wanted to be captured to give her a leg up on her mission.

Before she could think any more, soldiers came to escort her to a conference room, where Coulson and the two doctors were waiting. One wall was filled with blobby images. She looked more closely at the small notation at the bottom-- they were the scans of her own brain.

“Have a seat, Ms. Romanova,” Coulson said without turning around.

She sat.

“Your physical and mental state is consistent with extensive psychological reprogramming in childhood.” He gestured to one screen in particular. “It wasn't just the drugs. They also used cognitive pressure to alter your brain on a large scale.” 

_Cognitive pressure_. Was that what they were going to call it?

“For example,” he continued, “the nausea you've been experiencing with the M5-214 is consistent with having taken the antidote beforehand, but your blood work confirms that you're clean. It appears that you were trained in subconscious thought patterns to mimic the effect of the antidote.”

She could buy that. Her memories of what the Red Room had done to her were not clear, but that sounded like the sort of thing they'd have thought was an excellent idea.

Dr. Rosales picked up a remote and flipped through several images on one screen. “This detox in Amsterdam, was it traumatic?”

This was not— she was going to have to stick around, and she was going to have to _tell them things_. They already had scans of her brain, but they didn’t have the contents, yet. Natalia hesitated for a minute. “Yes,” she admitted.

Dr. Rosales nodded. “Thought so. That, and associated experiences, seem to have produced a high level of neural scarring. Frankly, you should be dead.”

Natalia crossed her arms over her chest. “Is this meeting going to end with you recommending I be put down?”

The corner of the doctor’s mouth turned up. “No. Your brain has found a way around the scarring, rewiring, so to speak, without losing any function. I’ve never seen anything like it. You’re a medical miracle, Ms. Romanova.”

Coulson cleared his throat.

“And, on a more practical level,” she continued briskly, “we feel we can reverse many of the Red Room’s changes. Not everything, but we should be able to, for example, neutralize the subconscious programming.”

Natalia was still processing the fact that she was even more messed up than she'd known.

“It looks like you also have some false memories,” Dr. Rosales said.

“… I’m not surprised.” Wait, they’d been able to figure _that_ out from her brain scans? Shit, what else had she inadvertently given them?

_Calm down. You are doing this voluntarily. You agreed to work for them._

“We can try to help you erase them—“ she sounded dubious.

_FUCK._ “No one is ever tampering with my memory, ever. Again.” She barely managed to calm her voice down from a snarl.

“Yes, that would be our preference,” Dr. Rosales said, as if Natalia's reaction had been perfectly normal. “Tell me, what do you want out of this?”

Natalia stared at her. “What?”

“It’s a standard therapy question. What are you hoping to get out of this?”

Natalia thought hard, and weighed the merits of lying vs. answering honestly. “The Red Room put a lot of things in my head,” she said slowly. “I want them out. I want the useful ones to become tools instead of compulsions.”

“You feel compelled to carry out the Red Room’s suggestions?”

“I... it takes effort to avoid feeling compelled. Sometimes constant effort.”

“Hmm. You want to be in control of them, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“We can help you do that, but it won’t be easy.”

A half-remembered phrase, older than the Red Room, maybe, floated up in Natalia’s mind. “Nothing worthwhile ever is.”

“Of course,” Agent Coulson broke in, “all this is dependent on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s decision to—“

“If S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn’t already made their decision, you wouldn’t have asked me to start on that treatment plan,” said Dr. Rosales. Dr. O’Leary, out of Coulson’s line of sight, gave a satisfied smile, and Natalia liked him better for that. “Don’t string my patient along, Agent Coulson, it’s bad for psychological continuity.”

“Duly noted,” Agent Coulson said drily. “Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Ms. Romanova.”

* 

Clint wasn’t at all surprised to be stuck babysitting new recruits after bringing Romanova in. He wouldn’t have been surprised to be stuck babysitting new recruits for the rest of his natural life.

“Lewis, watch your six,” he said into the mic. “You’re out of formation.”

“Yes, sir.”

He hated it when they called him sir. It made him feel old. He was twenty-six, for God’s sake, some of them were older than he was. He just had the dubious advantage of having skipped the usual college-or-armed-forces tour first.

He could still kick all their asses, though, so he didn’t feel bad about his unconventional career path.

Six of them were running a simulation against four experienced agents. He was monitoring their progress on the screens, and giving them advice, but he wasn’t going to save them from their own stupidity. Case in point— one of the greenies strayed too far out of cover for a shot, and the partner of the agent playing bait nailed him, illuminating his helmet with a beam of light. On the screen, the signal on the kid’s helmet went out. Clint tapped the microphone. “Back to base, Sartoras.”

“Yes, sir.”

A sudden crash— he scanned through the screens until he found the source— one of the obstacles had fallen down, trapping one of his people underneath. Clint turned on the lights, grabbed the remote, jumped over the control panel, slapped the door release, and hit the course running. “Hold your fire!” he yelled, and made it to the pile just as one of the other agents arrived. “Jones, you with us?”

“Yeah,” Jones said breathlessly. Clint gave him a quick assessment: no blood, no limbs at an awkward angle. 

“On three,” he told Sanders, and together they heaved the heavy thing up until Jones could scramble out from under it. They eased it back down as he picked himself up and dusted himself off. “You okay?”

Jones tried to hide a grimace. “Yeah.”

“You’re a terrible liar and a worse example to the kids. Where are you hurt?”

“My ankle,” he admitted. “Think it’s just sprained, but I can’t keep up with the kids. Put me somewhere up high.”

“Don’t be an idiot. Sanders, get him to the infirmary.”

“Sorry, boss, I let our side down.”

“It’s a training exercise, Jones, not the American Revolution.”

“Yeah, but how are they going to finish with half of us out?”

Clint considered. He could cancel the mission, but the kids would lose a valuable lesson. He could keep it running with two experienced agents, who the kids might be lucky enough to overcome, and then they’d get cocky and take entirely the _wrong_ lesson. Or… he had good eyes, he could see nearly as well from in here. “Give me your gear,” he ordered. 

Jones grinned, and stripped off the vest and the helmet that together registered if any part of the body had been “hit.” Clint fastened the front, and then caught the rifle that was tossed in his direction. “Good luck… sir,” Jones said, before Sanders helped him hobble off.

Clint spared the time for a dirty look after him, and then surveyed the “field.” It was more habit than anything else; he knew the lay of the land, and the best place to situate himself. He jogged over to a particularly tall piece of fake debris, jumped up, caught himself on a piece that jutted out, and swung up to the top. He shouldered the rifle and activated the earpiece in the helmet. “Squad Six, I’ll be replacing Agents Jones and Sanders on the field and supervising the rest of your mission from here. Free to resume on my mark.”

“That’s not fair,” one of the recruits muttered.

He tapped the earpiece again. “What was that, Squad Six?”

Squad Six maintained a prudent silence.

He slid the infrared goggles over his eyes, and used the remote to kill the lights. “Mark.”

He couldn’t see any of the five remaining trainees, but he could see the empty spots where they weren’t, and put together a pretty good idea of their locations. Off to his right, Damien was silently creeping forward, staying low enough to the ground that the kids probably didn’t realize she was there. Felps was hanging back, covering her.

One of the kids popped her head up over the giant carton, like a fucking _prairie dog_. Clint showed no mercy and dropped her with a head shot. “Back to base, Gryffon.” He distinctly heard dissatisfied muttering in response, as well as the phrase “only three of them.”

_Good God_. There were only four of the trainees themselves now, what in hell were they thinking? He, Damien and Felps needed to deliver enough of a humiliating defeat to break that cocky streak, or it was going to get these trainees killed the first time they tried to face a real threat. _Where is S.H.I.E.L.D. GETTING these people_ , he thought, and then realized he sounded like a crotchety ninety-year-old. 

“… can’t fire straight down the cliff from cover,” he heard across the room. After he taught these kids realistic threat assessments, he was going to teach them hand signals. And the pitfalls of micromanaging your colleagues. 

He wasn’t at all surprised when the four remaining trainees rushed forward out of cover. Two of them at least had the good sense to be in Damien’s blind spot; they’d seen her, after all. Clint dropped one of them, and then that kid’s partner hurled something—

He launched himself backwards off the debris just as the pistol, its trigger locked so that it produced a continuous beam of light, passed through his spot. Catching the outcropping broke his fall, but also left him a sitting duck. He dropped the rest of the way, rolled, and then sprinted forward, vaulting over the large “rock” in his path. Four flashes of light— the other two kids were dropped by Damien and Felps, and the one who’d ambushed him hadn’t expected him to be so aggressive. Her gun was pointing in the wrong direction when he popped up. He brought the rifle down on her helmet just hard enough that the sensor registered it as a hit.

With all the trainees “down,” the lights automatically came on. Damien and Felps got up from their cover. The trainees, removing their helmets, looked mutinous. The earlier “kills” watching from the observation deck didn’t look much happier. “Going to tell me that a real gun couldn’t do that, sir?” asked the one he’d tapped on the head, crossing her arms.

He didn’t smile. “No. I’m going to commend your ingenuity. Back to the observation deck, all of you. Post-mission debrief.”

There was a trick he’d picked up from Coulson— instead of telling them what they’d done wrong, he asked them what they’d done wrong, and waited for them to stop sulking and respond. The trick was in letting the silence stretch out long enough. He had no problem with silence.

This was a particularly cranky group. It was like pulling teeth to get them to admit their mistakes. He didn’t admonish them, just crossed his arms, leaned against the wall, and waited. And waited. Finally, three of them, including the woman who’d ambushed him, managed to get up an actual conversation about where they’d gone wrong, where they could have done better, and what they’d done well. He finished up with a few words of praise and sent them off to shower, then headed to the agents’ locker room himself. Jones’s equipment had been sweaty when Clint had put it on, and so had Clint; the air conditioning in the control room was malfunctioning again. He hoped that in the process of fixing it they didn’t discover any of his caches in the air ducts. Maybe he should move them if these malfunctions were going to keep up.

There was a bunch of guys just entering the locker room when he got there, so he grabbed his stuff and beat them to the showers. They were talking about a mission in Colombia they’d just pulled. He tuned them out and enjoyed washing off the filth of the day. One good thing about S.H.I.E.L.D.-- thirty-second showers not required.

They noticed him as he stepped out, absent-mindedly toweling off. “Hey, Barton,” Macdonald called.

Clint nodded in his direction.

“Heard you brought in the Black Widow!”

Clint glanced over. “Yeah.” He sauntered to his locker.

“How was that?”

Clint gave him a longer look: Macdonald was trying, badly, to conceal a smirk. “Classified.” He set the towel down and opened the locker.

“Ohhh, _classified_.” Macdonald looked at him knowingly, and a few choked snickers echoed off the walls. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

Clint hid his distaste. He didn’t want to Macdonald to have the satisfaction of provoking a reaction. He thought of the Widow’s threat to kill him if he groped her, thought of Macdonald’s knowing leer, and felt something cold settle into his stomach. He stepped into his boxers and made a few passes with the deodorant stick. 

Macdonald tried again: “You were sent to kill her, Barton. And then you… changed your mind.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and ridiculously. 

Clint tugged his shirt over his head, stepped into his pants, grabbed what needed washing, and stuffed everything else back in the locker. “If everyone in the intelligence division thinks with their dick like you do, Macdonald, no wonder it took us so long to catch up to her.” He slammed the locker, and left.

*

He walked into Coulson’s office two days later. “Sir, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Coulson looked up, eyebrows raised. “Now?” S.H.I.E.L.D. never slept, and often its agents didn’t, either, but it was near what would have been quitting time at a normal job.

“It’s about Romanova.”

“Ah.” Coulson packed a lot of meaning into one syllable. He gestured to the spare chair. “Is this about how you convinced her to come in in the first place?”

Clint grimaced. “You noticed I left that part out, huh.”

Coulson looked up with a raised eyebrow. “I may not be you, Barton, but give me credit for _some_ observational skills.” He paused, then continued more lightly, “I assumed you persuaded her with your usual charm and wit.”

Clint sat. “There are worse things you could have assumed.”

He could tell from Coulson’s reaction that he’d heard the shit Macdonald’d been spreading. “You know better than to listen to something like that.”

“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “I guess, at least anyone stupid enough to repeat something like that to _her_ is someone S.H.I.E.L.D. can afford to lose.”

Coulson made a non-committal noise and raised his eyebrows, waiting. 

Right— he’d come to confess. “I said S.H.I.E.L.D. could offer her a job, that they were interested in the Red Room…”

“You told me that part already.”

“And I said that if she listened to whatever offer you made and decided not to take it, as long as she didn’t hurt you or me, I’d let her go.”

Coulson stared at Clint for a minute, then leaned back in his chair and kept staring. He didn’t say anything. Clint didn’t, either. Coulson was good at waiting people out— he’d taught Clint the trainee trick— but Clint had never met anyone better than he was at keeping quiet.

Finally Coulson conceded. “It’s a good thing we’re not a government, or I’m fairly certain that would constitute treason.”

Clint winced. “Yes, sir.”

“Of course, if we were a government, we couldn’t get away with half the things we do. Thank you for telling me.”

Clint eyed him, and waited for a reprimand, but he was pretty good at reading Coulson by now, and there probably wasn’t one coming. Coulson was one of the few people who was inscrutable enough to make it difficult to parse the details of his facial expressions, tone, body language, and unconscious movements, but he’d had years of practice. “How’s that going?” he asked after a minute, when Coulson didn't tell him to go away.

“How’s what going?” Coulson looked up again and pretended ignorance. At least, Clint thought it was a pretense.

“Romanova.”

“Fine,” Coulson said. “You were right about her. She was brainwashed.” He hesitated. “The doctors aren’t sure how she survived.”

“Can S.H.I.E.L.D. fix her?”

“Probably.” Coulson looked at him curiously. “Are you taking an interest?”

“I stuck my neck out for her, sir, of course I’m taking an interest. I want to know that I made the right call.”

“Mmm. Time will tell.”

Clint looked at Coulson with narrowed, intent eyes. “You like her, don’t you. You want her to succeed.”

“That would be unprofessional of me, Barton.”

“Of course.”

“I have a… deep respect for her abilities, and her ability to overcome adversity.”

“Glad we got that cleared up, sir. It would be so much worse if you were rooting for her.”

“You’re a bother, Barton,” Coulson said.

Clint grinned. “Yes, sir.”

The look of strained affection vanished from Coulson’s face, replaced by something more serious. “Off the record,” he said, “some of that ‘adversity’ is…” He paused, choosing his words with his characteristic care. “Haunting.”

Clint watched his boss for a minute. “I can imagine.”

“Yes.” Coulson looked unhappy. “You probably can.”

There was a very thick silence.

“Was that all, Barton?”

“Yes, sir.” He turned to go.

“Barton.”

Clint turned back at the door. “Yes?”

“Watch your step. Director Fury’s still not happy with you.”

“I’d figured that out from the munchkin detail.”

Coulson tried to hide a smile. “Don’t let anyone else hear you call it that.”

Clint hesitated. “She’s isolated, right? She’s not going to hear the shit going around. That I seduced her into coming in.”

Coulson raised his eyebrows. “I think your reputation can stand the hit.”

“Okay, first, I don’t want her thinking I started that and deciding to take revenge in some unpredictable and terrible way, and more importantly…” He hesitated. “From everything she said and _you_ said, sounds like she had fuck-all choice in turning her sex appeal into a weapon, which is just as fucking horrific as everything else she said. And I, uh. I don’t want to contribute to that.” He trailed off, not sure how he was going to finish that sentence.

“It’s a perception she uses to her advantage.”

“There’s no advantage to be gained in having people think she joined S.H.I.E.L.D. just because I'm a great lay.” Wait, he should have worded that differently--

Coulson gave him an appraising look. “Don’t let your chivalry get you into trouble, Barton.” 

_Chivalry?_ But Coulson's attention was back on his work; it was a clear dismissal.

*

“We think we know how to fix your head,” Coulson told her at their next meeting. “First, we need to know everything.”

She’d had two days of waiting in the cells to expect that, but she still couldn’t stifle the wave of dread she felt. Letting Barton bring her in had been one commitment point. This was a far more irrevocable one. She could always break out of S.H.I.E.L.D., but Coulson would put everything she said in a file, and it would be much harder to erase the file and kill everyone who had seen it. “I want an assurance that you’re not going to take everything I know and then haul me out and shoot me.”

Coulson looked at her. “I’m not sure we’re prepared to give you any more assurance than the fact of your continued well-being on S.H.I.E.L.D. property.”

She leaned back in her chair. “Maybe you’d better find out.”

She tried not to look smug when he broke the silence first. “What kind of assurance do you want?”

“I’ll give you a fifty percent down payment,” she said. “I’ll tell you half of what I know. Then S.H.I.E.L.D. gives me the treatment. Then you get the rest.”

Coulson studied her appraisingly. “I believe the treatment calls for more than one session.”

She shrugged. “Fine. One session of talking for one session of treatment.”

He thought for a minute. “Fine.” He pressed a button on his phone. The door opened behind her— she hadn’t missed that Coulson had made her sit with her back to the door— and Dr. Rosales came in, wheeling the same blood machine they’d used on her earlier. “Start talking.”

No one hit her, so it was by far the most physically pleasant interrogation she’d ever had. They brought her water— in a sealed bottle— and offered her food, too, but she was too sick to eat. The M5-214 running through her system meant she had to fight constantly to keep from retching. At least it was good practice in keeping her body under better control; if she couldn’t control it, it was compromised as a tool.

But Coulson wanted to know all the details, and the questions he asked taxed the limits of her very good memory. She had to tell him about things she would have preferred never to remember again, let alone share with another human being. Between that and the stress from the drug, she thought it might have been less grueling if they’d just hit her.

She decided she’d said enough when she got to the end of her first year free from the Red Room. What she had just told him was more than Natalia Romanova had ever said about herself, rather than a fake identity, to anyone at any one time. Possibly ever. “That’s all I’m giving you right now.” 

Coulson looked for a minute like he was about to object. Instead, he turned off the digital recorder, and nodded to Dr. Rosales, who was already bending over her to take out the needle. “Get some rest, Ms. Romanova. We’ll discuss your treatment in the morning.”

They took her back to her cell. For lack of anything better to do, she stretched out on the cot, even though she wasn’t tired. The cell was tiny and boring, but it was bigger than the closet she’d been given in the Red—

No. That was wrong. She’d been in a barracks in the Red Room, sharing triple bunk beds with all the other girls. The memory of the tiny space with a cot was wrong. Wasn't it? Maybe she’d been moved out of the dorm when she was older, and running regular missions. When she was no longer on the regimented training schedule with the younger girls, it would have made sense to house her away from them.

This wasn't the first time she'd had to come up with a _post facto_ rationalization for her conflicting memories, but it had never gotten any easier. There was no way in hell she was going to let S.H.I.E.L.D. wipe any memories, real or false, but did that mean it was always going to be that way in her head? Rewriting reality to accommodate smoke and mirrors?

She got up and started stretching so she wouldn't have to think about it too much.

*

She saw Coulson and Dr. Rosales again the next day, but this “meeting” didn't involve any needles. The pictures of her brain were back up on the wall. The doctor took the lead; Coulson sat by the wall and listened.

“Your brain was re-engineered to be essentially impervious to some drugs,” Dr. Rosales said. “Not all-- painkillers work on you, am I right?”

Natalia nodded.

“-- But it adapts to any truth serum or interrogation aid extremely quickly. That complicates fixing your head, because the things we need to take out this false structure can’t get past the outer defenses.”

“You said you had a plan,” Natalia said accusingly.

“I do.” Dr. Rosales looked upset at losing the opportunity to talk about her science. “It’s theoretically possible that a short, sharp shock of the right kind could be effective enough to get over the first ‘hump.’ But that would also be extremely unpleasant and dangerous for you, so I want to go another route. The pathways that the Red Room reworked in your head are, as you'd expect, more active when you’re conscious. I believe that if we sedate you and administer a combination of low doses of drugs and electrical stimulation—“

“No,” Natalia said, as soon as she pushed past being startled, and found her voice. “You’re not putting me under and fucking with my brain.”

“This is the best—“

“ _You’re not putting me under and fucking with my brain_.”

There was a short silence in the room. “All right.” Dr. Rosales sounded less pissed off than Natalia had expected. Was Natalia actually being given a genuine choice here-- being allowed to override someone else's decision about her body? Or was it all part of an increasingly elaborate plot to lull her into a false sense of security? “I can work with that.”

“I’ll take the short, sharp shock.”

“I don’t think you’re going to like that very much—“

“I’ve had worse,” Natalia said drily. “I promise. When can we start?”

Dr. Rosales frowned, chewing on the end of her pen, and thought. “I don’t want to cut corners. I need until tomorrow morning. And I want Dr. Tamaki standing by with a team,” she said to Coulson.

“You’ll have her.”

“Dr. Tamaki is S.H.I.E.L.D.’s neurosurgeon— S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best neurosurgeon,” Dr. Rosales explained. “If this shock scrambles your brains, she’ll be the only hope of putting you back together.”

“That’s very reassuring.”

“I have a lot to arrange. Agent Coulson, do you need me for anything?”

“Go ahead. We’ll have our next session later.”

Dr. Rosales scrambled for the door, already muttering under her breath about chemicals and brain waves. “Until tomorrow, Ms. Romanova,” Coulson said, and called the guard to take her back.

The panic hit her as soon as the door locked behind her. She was going to let strangers rearrange her brain. She was going to let strangers rearrange her brain so she’d be in their debt and do whatever they wanted her to do. _Get out. Get out. Get out._ The force of the compulsion took her breath away. She leaned against the wall for balance and made herself take slow, deep breaths. Were those really her own thoughts, hitting her with so much force, or was it a remnant of the Red Room, in a last-ditch self-defense effort? It was hard to think clearly with so much adrenaline flooding her.

Old habit kicked in. _You’re better than this_. She forced her legs to obey her, bent over the sink, and splashed cold water over her face and head until her hair was saturated. Then she drank from her cupped hands. Cooling her body down from its hot flush had distracted her, but as soon as she thought about trying not to think about it, it came back. She stumbled past the cot, into the corner where the camera was blind, sank down, and wrapped her arms around her knees. With her head bent, she concentrated on breathing. _In, two, three, four, five. Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven. In… breathe with me, Romanova_. She didn’t know if it was her own voice, or a splinter of a buried memory, but it was comforting.

She kept breathing like that and looked objectively at her options. She could submit to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s treatment. She could refuse S.H.I.E.L.D.’s treatment and make them come up with something else, but if her concern was trusting S.H.I.E.L.D., there wasn’t much difference between those two. She could break out of S.H.I.E.L.D. and get someone else, somewhere else, to fix her head. She could break out of S.H.I.E.L.D. and do nothing at all.

The fourth option… the Red Room was _gone_. There was no one left to save but there was also no one left to fight. She wanted them out of her head. She’d fought too damn hard to let them drive her crazy— maybe to her own death— from beyond the grave.

The third option might work if she could wipe all the copies of the interrogation, steal Dr. Rosales’s data on her way out, and kill her and Coulson. Natalia would still have to find a brain doctor she considered trustworthy enough to rearrange her head, and the only way she could secure that trust was with enough money. She wouldn’t have to worry that a private doctor was trying to turn her back into a programmed assassin-bot, but she’d still have to worry that they might screw her over in some other way. She _knew_ what S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted from her, or she thought she did. Would that help her see a double-cross coming?

She forced herself to admit that if she broke out of S.H.I.E.L.D., their response could seriously inconvenience her, especially if she made them really angry by killing more of their people in the process. She’d stayed ahead of them for years without any trouble, but now they knew the inside of her brain. They knew her vulnerabilities, mentally and physically. And Barton hadn’t had trouble getting the drop on her, even before she’d spilled her guts to S.H.I.E.L.D.

What was waiting for her out there? She couldn’t think of a single positive, attractive answer to that question. The worst thing that could happen if she broke out was a slow descent into madness, or the possibility of being captured and turned into someone’s toy assassin. The worst thing that could happen if she stayed was that S.H.I.E.L.D. could be the one to turn her into a mindless slave. She didn’t know how likely that was, but she knew that if she broke out and didn’t fix her brain, the long-term odds weren’t good for her. It wasn't something she'd thought about much before; she hadn't imagined an outcome besides _dead_ or _alive with the other survivors._ But with the Red Room gone-- with her focus gone-- the problems she'd been stuffing under the surface for so long were starting to make themselves known.

She’d met one of their other assassins, Barton, who obviously wasn’t a uniformed soldier or a suit. He’d also obviously been operating under his own capacities-- had taken a damn big chunk of initiative to bring her in. If she could be as good as him— and she could— would they have any reason to make her a drone?

It might be novel, working for someone who decided who to kill with other criteria than money. And maybe she could find someone who needed saving, like her… her fellows in the Red Room had. If they crossed her, she could and would get free and kill them. But if they _didn’t_ cross her, she would benefit from what they were doing for her.

She was so tired. She was tired of the clamor in her head and of being so damn _alone_ , all the time, because she'd been made into something very specific and now there was no one else like her. She didn’t want to trust S.H.I.E.L.D., and she wouldn't any more than she had to, but she could try working with them. She’d hit rock-bottom in her life before she’d turned eighteen; she knew how to come back. If this wasn’t a good choice, she’d fight her way back again. And she’d be in a better position to do it if she got the Red Room out of her head.

But that meant letting _them_ into her head. She stiffened at the thought. _What if they leave me worse?_ Natalia wasn’t a brain scientist; even if she demanded all the technical details, they could easily mislead her and she’d never know. They could be concealing a plan to put their own framework in her head. They had a grudge against her, after all. And they had no real reason to think that she'd come back to them the first time they let her out. They’d want to protect their investment, the shiny new toy that Barton had brought them. They’d be idiots _not_ to wipe enough of her brain to make her obedient to them. She felt sick, and tried hard not to gag. She couldn’t think past that paralyzing primal fear to anything more reasonable.

She went over and over the same cycle in her head. She started to shake. Was she being logical, or was her brain breaking down? Had she finally lost it? The drum of _Get out, get out, get out_ beat along with her heart.

No, that wasn’t a drum. Those were footsteps outside. A lot of footsteps. Had they come to drag her away, to be remade? She needed to get up and run and fight. But she couldn’t override her need to stay small and quiet. She couldn’t even make herself stand. She was broken. She wasn’t good for anything but being reprogrammed. She was broken.

There was a knock on the door. “Ms. Romanova?” It was Coulson.

She huddled in the corner and didn’t answer.

He knocked again. “Ms. Romanova, are you inside?”

They were going to open the door and take her. She needed to be ready to fight. 

“Are you decent?”

She needed to be ready.

“May I open the door?”

Why did he bother asking?

The lock beeped. She heard murmuring, and Coulson's voice saying, “No.” He stepped inside, looked around— and saw her. The door slid shut behind him.

“Are you injured?” he asked after a minute.

“No.” Her voice was hoarse with disuse and panic.

“You went off the camera.”

“Yes.”

He took another step inside. “Are you ill from the treatment?”

“No.”

He sat on the edge of the cot, resting his elbows on his knees. “What’s wrong?”

She gave him a disbelieving look. 

“Here. You look cold.” He tugged the blanket off the bed and tossed it at her. It landed within easy reach, but not actually on her. After a minute, she reached out and wrapped it around her shoulders. It didn’t help the shaking.

He tried again. “Are you apprehensive about tomorrow’s treatment?”

That was enough, that he would come in here and bait her like this. It was _cruel_. She'd seen cruelty before, but right now she was too raw to keep her calm. “Why are you bothering to pretend you’re going to do anything but turn me into a mindless drone for S.H.I.E.L.D.?” she demanded bitterly.

Coulson looked taken aback and went completely still. It was a good act. “We’re not going to turn you into a mindless drone for S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I could tell you S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t do that,” he said after a pause, “but I don’t think you’d be convinced, so here’s a pragmatic reason. Brainwashing is extremely difficult; very few organizations have managed it successfully and long-term. The Red Room took children because their brains are more plastic and easier to mold. You’re an adult now, with an adult brain. S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn’t replicate what they did without destroying a significant chunk of your higher brain function. You’re too valuable for that.”

She eyed him warily. 

“What S.H.I.E.L.D. is doing is essentially removing the broken remains of scaffolding,” he continued. “Building a new scaffolding would be a lot harder.”

She wanted to believe him, desperately. She took that as a sign of mental weakness, but it still didn’t stop her from volunteering information: “There were a lot of failures. In the Red Room.”

Coulson nodded. “Dr. Rosales thought there must have been.”

“How do I know you’re not using the treatment to take me off-guard and kill me?” she demanded after a minute.

“Because you owe us for the death of our people,” he said bluntly. “You can’t work that off if you’re dead.”

Owing S.H.I.E.L.D. a debt was something she could understand. That reassured her, because it was familiar, but it raised other concerns. “So S.H.I.E.L.D. owns me?”

“No. Your labor, maybe. But not you.”

She thought about that. “Get off my bed,” she said finally. She expected Coulson to say it was S.H.I.E.L.D.’s bed, not hers. But he stood obediently, and looked down at her.

“If you’re lying to me, if S.H.I.E.L.D. is planning to take me under again, you better be prepared to be vigilant every second of every day until you kill me. If your control ever slips, I will get out, and I will kill you all.” She might not be able to take down S.H.I.E.L.D., but she could kill everyone who’d been involved with her brainwashing. “A minute is all I need.”

“I know,” he said. “We weren’t planning on it. But I’ll keep your threat in mind.”

“That wasn’t a threat. It was honesty.”

He digested that for a minute. “Do you have any other misapprehensions I can clear up?”

“No.”

“You should let your guards know if you need anything. Believe it or not, S.H.I.E.L.D. is invested in your wellbeing.”

“Because I owe you.”

“Because you owe us,” he agreed. “Please try not to terrify the monitors. They were convinced you’d escaped.”

She gave him an unimpressed look. “You only have one kind of camera in here?”

“I never said that.” He turned towards the door. “Get some rest. Tomorrow will be trying.”

She rolled her eyes. “I think I can handle it.”

*

She stopped panicking once Coulson was gone, because he’d given a clear and plausible account of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s motivations. She even managed to sleep a little, though she woke at every noise. When the guards knocked, she was awake, showered, and staring at the wall. The panic didn't return as they escorted her to the lab. She was willing to take a risk if the potential payout was having her head back. She’d sell her soul to S.H.I.E.L.D. if they could do that for her.

There were more guards inside the lab. Apparently S.H.I.E.L.D. was concerned about how she would react to this treatment. Dr. Rosales was adjusting wires attached to a large metal box, looking uncharacteristically grave. “Natalia,” the doctor greeted her. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

Coulson was conferring with one of the guards, but Natalia sensed him watching her. “I’m sure.”

“Then—“ She gestured to the chair, which had wrist and ankle restraints. “We’re going to give you a specially calibrated electrical shock at the same time as we flood your body with certain drugs that will cross the blood-brain barrier. The combination should knock out most of the Red Room’s framework, but there’s a good chance it will kill you instead.”

“I’m willing to take that chance.” She sat down and let one of the guards fasten her wrists and ankles. 

Dr. Rosales inserted a needle in her right hand, as usual. Then she leaned over. “I’m going to have to shave off a patch of your hair to get the brain probe in.”

_Brain probe_ — Natalia remembered— _the sound of razors, the smell of antiseptic, the buzzing against her skull, the restraints against her wrists and ankles, the blindness_ — She’d tensed up. Coulson’s center of balance had shifted, as if he were preparing for danger. Was he reacting to her reaction? Or preparing for a reaction he knew was still coming? Dr. Rosales was in her blind spot, with a needle, and that made Natalia’s skin crawl with _wrong_. Was it always going to be like this, working with these people? Waiting for the stab in the back— or in this case, in the back of the neck?

If she had any self-preservation instincts at all, yes, it would be. It _should_ be.

“Ms. Romanova?” Dr. Rosales murmured, still leaning over her.

“What?”

“Are you ready?”

Oh. She was asking for _permission_. That was markedly different from her flashback, Natalia was pretty sure. Or maybe Dr. Rosales was just smart enough not to stab an unwilling assassin with a needle. “Yes.”

She kept her breathing slow and measured as this razor, too, buzzed against her skull. But only for about two seconds. “Relax, please,” Dr. Rosales said. Natalia did, and did not tense even when she felt the concentrated fire of the needle. Then they attached probes to her hand and chest, and a number of electrodes to her skull. “This is going to pull your hair when we take them out,” Dr. Rosales murmured. “Sorry about that.”

“… I don’t care.”

Dr. Rosales went to stand by one of the machines. “Natalia, are you ready?”

“Yes.” She started to wonder how many times they were going to ask her. The repetition gave her a little reassurance that this wasn’t an elaborate ruse; if it were, there would be no reason to continue it after she was restrained.

“Dr. O’Leary?”

“Ready,” the other doctor confirmed. He was standing by a different piece of equipment, alongside two medics.

Dr. Rosales pressed the button for the intercom. “Dr. Tamaki, is your team ready?”

“Ready and standing by,” came the voice at the other end.

Dr. Rosales glanced up. “Natalia, are—“

“Just _flip the goddamned switch_.”

Dr. Rosales flipped the goddamned switch. Natalia's entire body seized up. She was bombarded by scents, sounds, sights, smells. It was confusing and oh, so painful. Then _boom_ — the overwhelming, irresistible impact knocked Natalia out.

*

Coming back to consciousness was like swimming up through murky water, trying to reach the light. She was completely disoriented but she knew she had to wake up.

She could hear things again. “— signs of consciousness,” someone said, their voice sharp and agitated. The voice was familiar. She should know it.

There were other voices, but they sounded strange. After a minute she realized why. _No wonder they’re echoing. It’s so quiet._

The voices stopped. “Quiet?” one of them asked.

She realized she’d spoken out loud. “Yeah…” she slurred. It was much quieter and emptier than usual. She wasn’t sure if it was her head or the room. Whatever it was, it felt wonderful.

“Just relax,” someone said. “You don’t need to do anything.” Someone unfastened the restraints. She heard quiet movement in the room.

Finally she opened her eyes. The light was painfully bright. The first thing she saw was Dr. Rosales, face unnaturally pale, looking stricken.

“Those artificial pathways were more robust than they had any right to be,” she said. “I looked at the monitors and thought we’d killed you.”

“Mm-mm,” Natalia said.

“Vitals are strong,” someone else said. The other doctor— O’Leary.

“I’m not sure how you survived that,” Dr. Rosales continued. She sounded shaken.

“… get that a lot.” Natalia paid more attention to the room. Most of the guards were gone. “Did it work? What blew up?”

“Preliminary signs are promising,” Dr. Rosales said. “Nothing blew up.”

She frowned. “I heard it. It was an incredible boom.”

There was a short silence. “It must have been in your head. All the equipment’s intact, and none of us heard anything.”

“Mmm.” Natalia didn’t pursue that any farther. She was weighed down by lassitude.

“It’s safe to unhook her,” someone said a few minutes, or maybe seconds, later. The electrodes did pull coming off. She barely noticed it.

When they brought her a stretcher she mustered the energy to glare. “I can walk.”

The guards hovered as if she were going to collapse at any second, but they let her walk. They didn’t take her back to her cell; instead, they took her to a curtained alcove in the medical bay. She knew she should be observing her surroundings, but all she cared about was the bed. She fell onto it with as much grace as she could manage. By the time they hooked up a monitor for her vitals, she was half asleep.

They let her go back to her cell in the middle of the second shift. The trip back used up all the energy she'd regained, and then more. She fell asleep as soon as she lay down. When someone brought a tray, she woke, but didn’t manage to open her eyes until they were gone. She spent the rest of the day and that night sleeping, waking up only when she was brought more food. 

By the next morning she was starting to feel like herself again, but with improvements: the Red Room's urgings in her head were at a distance, now. They were also disjointed and didn’t make a lot of sense. She had the mental space, now, to observe that they were illogical; instead of a choice between fighting or obeying, she could just... observe and critique them.

That afternoon they took her to Coulson for an abridged interrogation session. He looked at her with something like pity, ended it early, and told her to go back to bed. She was too tired to resent the pity.

After she'd slept another eight hours, the guards brought her to Dr. Rosales' office. It looked like it had been designed to be soothing, with low lights, aesthetically pleasing but not stylistically distinctive furnishings, and a brown plush couch. Within ten seconds, Natalia spotted seven items she could use to incapacitate the other woman, get past her guards, and escape, but she didn’t feel the need to act on her observation.

Dr. Rosales didn’t give her time to take a seat. Instead she waved to the door. “Do you feel up to a walk?” 

The head guard threw a quiet shitfit when he realized what was going on. “Doctor Rosie, your patient has restricted access to the base and is not allowed to go anywhere without an escort.”

“Then you can follow us.” Dr. Rosales slipped past him, Natalia in her wake, without Natalia quite seeing how she’d done it. That was impressive.

Natalia waited until they were ten paces past. “You consider putting this entire installation at risk an acceptable price for getting me on your good side?”

Dr. Rosales gave her a surprised, amused look as she called the elevator. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

Natalia crossed her arms over her chest. “Isn’t it?”

“Do you want me to believe that the posse they have following you around could actually stop you?”

Natalia studied her carefully. She knew the doctor was very intelligent, but this was a side she hadn’t seen before. “They could slow me down.”

“Almost only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and thermonuclear warfare. C’mon.” The elevator arrived, and Dr. Rosales closed the doors in the faces of the guards who had just caught up to them. She’d just trapped herself in an enclosed space with an _assassin_. It would have been child’s play for Natalia to kill her before the doors opened again. Even if the doctor had whatever passed for standard S.H.I.E.L.D. self-defense training, she didn’t have a chance in hell. Natalia spent the ride trying to figure out if she was stupid or just supremely overconfident.

The doors slid open on the only floor above ground. Dr. Rosales headed without hesitation for the main door. The guard stopped her. “Dr. Rosales, this… person is not allowed to go anywhere without an escort. She shouldn’t even be up here. What’s going on?” The guard put a hand on her gun.

“She has an escort. Me.”

“An _armed_ escort,” the guard insisted. 

Natalia saw Dr. Rosales’ lips twitch in amusement— contempt?— and wondered what concealed weapon the doctor was carrying. And how Natalia could get ahold of it, if she needed to.

Dr. Rosales waved a careless hand back towards the bowels of the building. “They’re back there somewhere, they’ll catch up.”

Her nonchalance seemed to outrage the guard, who frowned even more sharply. “You. Against the wall,” she ordered Natalia.

Natalia gave her a flat look.

“I don’t know how you’ve coerced Doctor Rosie into taking you outside, but I’m going to search you, and then you’re going to go back downstairs to your cell.” She reached for Natalia.

Natalia took a deep breath, and willed herself to stay still.

“Excuse me--” Dr. Rosales stepped between them before Natalia lost control of the compulsion to defend herself “--no. _My patient_ has not coerced me into doing anything, and you’re not in a position to interfere with the course of treatment I have recommended for _my patient_.”

“ _Taking a walk_ is a course of treatment?” the guard said incredulously.

“Yes.”

The guard opened her mouth, then closed it again. The elevator disgorged Natalia's escort gave her an opening. She called out to them: “Leonard! Did you approve this?”

Leonard caught up to them, trailing other guards like orbiting satellites, and looking harassed. “I deferred to Doctor Rosales’ authority, yes.”

“She’s a doctor. She doesn’t have the authority to determine who breaches the perimeter—“

“Actually, I do,” Dr. Rosales said.

But the other guard barreled on without having heard her. “— especially not dangerous assets of ambiguous loyalty!”

Natalia leaned back against the wall to watch the show.

“We were _accompanying_ them, Agent Thomas.” Leonard sounded offended. “We are capable of handling a potential crisis, that’s what we’re here for!”

“Yeah, you really looked like you were accompanying them!”

Leonard turned pink. His next few words tripped over themselves on the way out. Thomas took the opportunity to make another pointed remark. One of Leonard’s men jumped to his defense, and all three of them started talking over each other. Natalia watched it all carefully. It was always useful to know about exploitable fault lines in an organization. 

Dr. Rosales tugged on her sleeve— the three guards had stopped paying any attention to them. “Come on,” she murmured, and Natalia didn’t resist. There was a crowd gathering, waiting to get through the door, and a couple of them took the opportunity to squeeze past the growing number of arguing guards. Dr. Rosales and Natalia swung in behind them and got through the door without the guards noticing.

The sunlight was _bright_ — she hadn’t seen it in days. The doctor handed her a pair of sunglasses. Natalia put them on, and saw that her guesses about their location, made based on what she'd seen from the tarmac, were right: they were adjacent to an American army base, separated by a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Other outbuildings clustered around the main building. There was no indication, from above, that S.H.I.E.L.D.’s base extended beyond one story. Did the Americans know the extent of the facility they were harboring?

They went about twenty paces in silence. “Well?” she said. “You went to a lot of trouble for this. What for? I don’t think it was to show off the weaknesses in your organization.”

“I just thought you might like a walk,” Dr. Rosales said, but distractedly. 

Natalia frowned. Few people were _ever_ distracted in her presence, unless she meant them to be. Belatedly, she recognized Dr. Rosales' body language: she was surveying the area, watching for threats. That was second nature to Natalia, too. But the doctor’s posture indicated that she’d already cataloged Natalia as a known factor— as a _friendly_ — and dismissed her from consideration.

Who the hell _was_ this woman?

S.H.I.E.L.D. employed people who could be easily misled. The altercation at the front door had proven that. But she didn’t think Dr. Rosales was one of them, despite her apparent naiveté. Agent Coulson seemed to respect her, and she _knew_ Coulson wasn’t a fool.

So what kind of threats was this doctor used to facing, that Natalia was benign in comparison?

“How is S.H.I.E.L.D. treating you?” Dr. Rosales asked.

“Fine.” Natalia frowned. “You’ve been present for all my interrogations. And the treatment.”

“There are twenty-four hours in a day.”

Natalia parsed that. “You’re concerned that S.H.I.E.L.D. is abusing me behind your back?”

“No. I’m eliminating the possibility. Are they?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“What would you have done if I’d said yes?”

“Made them stop.”

Natalia snorted. The evidence was coming down on the “naiveté” side of the scale.

They walked in silence for a few minutes. “Don’t look immediately, but what do you see at three o’clock?”

Natalia looked to her left, then deliberately looked towards the sun overhead. Keeping her eyes closed, she pretended to recoil, and looked directly to her right. “It looks like a camera installation,” she said, after she'd looked forward again. “It’s out of line with the others.”

“I wonder if Upstairs knows the Americans are spying on us again.”

“Do you ever feel conflicted about being an American working for an extranational intelligence agency?” She was confident that she’d identified the doctor’s nationality correctly from her accent. “S.H.I.E.L.D. interests and American interests must conflict sometimes. What happens then?”

“Chest-pounding. Two years ago, this base was locked down for six hours because the American commander was threatening to shoot down any plane that took off.”

“Are you concerned about being charged with treason?”

Dr. Rosales looked amused. “S.H.I.E.L.D. agents don’t get charged with treason. Not unless S.H.I.E.L.D. needs a scapegoat. Or a distraction. And S.H.I.E.L.D. looks after its own. To a point.”

“The point of pragmatism.”

“Yes.”

They had made the circuit of two sides of the fence and were starting down the third. Their escort was about twenty paces behind, out of earshot. “How far have we gotten with your debriefing? Chronologically.”

“2003.”

“About halfway there, then.”

“Yes.” 

“How are you handling the side effects of the drugs and the treatment?”

“Fine.”

“You look like you’ve lost some weight.”

Natalia was irritated at that, because it was probably true, and because it was apparent enough for someone else to notice. She needed to keep her body shape and size constant; it made her life easier. Letting the nausea affect that was giving into weakness.

“Dr. O’Leary can prescribe you something for the nausea.”

“I'm not taking any more drugs than I have to.”

“Then ask your guards to bring you blander food. This process is taking enough of a toll on your body as it is.”

Natalia changed the subject and didn’t care if it was noticeable. “How did you come to work for S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“I used to be a prison doctor,” Dr. Rosales said abstractedly, studying the area again.

Natalia glanced at her, though she knew it wouldn’t give her any new information. The doctor couldn’t be past her mid thirties. Natalia had a hard time picturing her, young and new to the job, working with hardened inmates.

“I was the whistleblower on a prison abuse scandal,” Dr. Rosales continued, “lost my job, and had to move to escape the warden, who was threatening me and having me followed. I came back to my apartment one night to find Director Fury sitting at my kitchen table. He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. must have wanted you badly if Fury himself came.”

“He has a keen sense of the dramatic. I don’t think he even notices it any more.”

Natalia repressed the urge to smile. Then the analytical part of her brain kicked in again. Dr. Rosales was talking to her as if they were acquaintances, or friends. Why? What did she hope to learn from it?

“In your opinion,” Dr. Rosales said after a minute, “did you experience trauma as a result of being introduced to killing at a young age?”

“I have no frame of reference.” She couldn’t even remember if she’d had nightmares, afterwards. Maybe the Red Room had erased those memories, or maybe her nightmares had been about other things.

“Do you find it traumatic to kill now? Or after you left the Red Room?”

“No.” She shrugged. “Everyone dies. Some people don’t deserve to live. I don’t particularly care. Why?”

“I just want to know what kind of support you need. S.H.I.E.L.D. takes an interest in the mental health of its people. It directly impacts their functioning.”

“I’m fine.”

They returned to the building in silence; the guard gave them a sullen and relieved look. Back in her cell, Natalia dragged her cot into the camera's blind spot, then turned the lights down. Her sleep cycle was still messed up. She felt cold, and crawled under the covers, back to the wall, in the fetal position. The prospect of life with the Red Room permanently gone was enormously appealing-- addictive-- worth selling her soul for-- but the ramifications were terrifying.

Her best safe house was also the closest thing to a home that she could remember having. There wasn't much there, but there was an armchair, a full bookcase, a cabinet of good tea, and soft sheets and blankets. It had been pathetically difficult to discover anything like a preference in herself, but she'd counted wanting and then buying those creature comforts as a double rebellion.

Around then, she'd started to understand that the Red Room's damage had gone much farther than what was wrong with her head. They'd given her a terrifying skill set, and left her a terrifyingly blank slate. Natalia had thought that after she'd rescued her comrades, they could have tried to work it out together-- work out what it meant to be actually _free_ , and not just escaped.

Now she had to do it alone.

*

Agent Coulson started the next session with, “I have good news.”

She waited for him to continue.

“We found your bank accounts, and verified the expenditures to the scientist and the band of mercenaries. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s higher-ups are reasonably convinced that you’re telling us the truth.”

Her first reactions were surprise, anger, and outrage— not helpful. “You found my what.”

Coulson gave her a sympathetic look. _Fuck you_ , she thought. “We used what you told us about your jobs to create a search pattern for certain activity, and narrowed the list from there.”

It was naïve to be outraged at this invasion of her privacy when they were analyzing her bodily fluids. But she’d _known_ about that. _Damage control_. They couldn’t have found every account. Some weren’t linked to any of the others; she'd stocked them by smuggling cash across international borders and making deposits. She still had a reserve. She could restart.

“Of course we didn’t touch them,” Coulson added.

“I’m delighted to hear that.” Then, belatedly, she processed the rest of his statement. “S.H.I.E.L.D. has higher-ups besides Director Fury?”

Coulson smiled, but didn’t respond. He put on gloves, tore open the alcohol wipe, and opened the case with the needle. She extended her arm. The back of her hand was dotted with needle marks now, and looking at it reminded her of…

Reminded her of…

“Ms. Romanova?”

She snapped out of it and nodded. Coulson hooked her up. She started gagging almost immediately, and struggled to get herself under control. _An uncontrolled tool is useless._

Coulson frowned. “It doesn’t usually happen this quickly.”

“Learned response,” she gritted out. Her body _would_ obey her.

“No, it’s not,” Dr. Rosales said. “Agent Coulson, take out the needle.”

Natalia looked at her, wondering where she'd learned that tone of command. The doctor probably didn't even know she'd used it. Coulson obeyed without question, and the violent nausea started to subside.

Dr. Rosales was still frowning at the screen. “Natalia, whoever did this to you was crafty, and also a complete bastard.”

“I knew that already.” 

“I thought you'd be able to tolerate the drugs at this point, but your brain is fighting back against the treatment. Any more M5-214 could jeopardize it. I’m pretty sure similar drugs would have the same effect.”

“All right,” Coulson said. “No more drugs. Think of it as a new variable to test, Doctor.”

Natalia thought she heard the doctor mutter something about _non-scientists_ , but she wasn’t sure.

“Where were we, Ms. Romanova? July of 2003, was it?”

*

After he successfully shepherded the kids through remedial shooting for the suit track, and handed them over to their next to-be-pitied supervisor, he was assigned to surveillance detail in the mountains of northern Tibet, which were still in the grip of winter. Fury was not known for his subtlety.

Clint was torn between bitching and appreciation. It was a punishment detail, no doubt about that: it was cold as hell, and sometimes the visibility was so poor that he had to pack up and go back to the cabin. But it was also high and remote, and even though he'd been in a lot of high, remote places, on clear days here, the view still took his breath away. Well, the mountains did; the secret military installation he was watching was pretty boring.

Also, it was _cold as hell_. The ninth circle, specifically. Clint wondered if Fury was trying to tell him something there-- but that was a bit of a stretch, and Fury wasn't known for his subtlety.

Fury had not deigned to give him any company, relief, or backup, which was fine with Clint but bad for surveillance. After he scouted for the best location, he had to pull round-the-clock shifts for the next 48 hours, to figure out the base's schedule. By the time he stumbled back to the cabin, he was wondering if he'd died already and just hadn't noticed.

He wasn’t waiting for anything _to_ happen, just gathering basic intelligence and taking pictures, which meant he could watch at predictable times. But predictable didn’t mean easy. If he wanted to watch all the shift changes, plus the traffic during the day, he had to sleep in snatches of a few hours. He'd built a tiny snow shelter at his lookout spot that first day, and lined it with a space blanket, for heat and for protection from infrared scopes. He slept there half the time, only stumbling back, frozen, to the cabin at night.

At least the cabin was snug and wind-proof-- also snoop-proof. He didn’t pretend to understand what S.H.I.E.L.D.’s techs came up with, but he knew that the little box in the corner was gathering data on how well the special coating on the roof blocked long-distance snoopery by satellites and other things, and also how well it stood up in the cold. He wished it luck. He didn’t think anyone or anything could last in this cold for too long.

By the third day, the silence had crept into his head and into his bones. It took him back to weeks of extended stakeout missions for the mercenaries, either serving as advance surveillance, or doing hits when one person was sufficient. There were some of those missions that he didn’t like to think of, now. He’d thought then, with all the bitter anger of seventeen or eighteen and with blood already on his hands, that he was already damned so it didn’t matter. At twenty-six he wished he'd had more scruples, before. But this was his penance for surviving— for _not_ being damned, as it were; he had to live with it.

The solitude of those missions had been glorious-- a balm, sort of, probably the only thing that had held him together then. Fucked over by everyone he'd thought had been on his side, left to _fucking die in an alley_ , he'd barely been able to tolerate anyone else's company. His commander hadn't cared about that, or about the way Clint walked the fine line between curtness and incivility, as long as he kept making impossible shots.

After he'd joined S.H.I.E.L.D., his missions had gotten shorter, and he hadn't had many opportunities to avoid all human contact for days at a time. But here he was, reliving it without all the rage and self-loathing, just the good parts. Maybe he would send Fury a thank-you note, just to piss him off. Clint kept his eyes on the facility below and passed the time trying to work out the logistics of hand-carrying a snowball back.

Nothing had moved below in four hours. Either they were hibernating for the winter, or they were using the tunnels he was beginning to suspect they had. Had _Fury_ known about the tunnels? _Bastard_ , Clint thought absentmindedly.

He wondered how Romanova was getting along in Missouri. He wondered if Fury had met her yet. Hell, for all Clint knew, Fury had sent him out here because she'd gone on a killing spree and broken out, and Fury either wanted to keep him safe, or make sure they weren't colluding.

After the shift change, he slogged back to the cabin. It was cold enough inside that he could see his breath, but it was still an improvement over his little shelter. He cooked an MRE, and huddled next to the heater until he was warm enough to strip off most of his layers and wriggle into the cold sleeping bag. He left on his hats and his innermost gloves for good measure.

He should have dropped off right to sleep, but he stared at the ceiling, thinking about Romanova and her expression when Coulson had told her about the Red Room. Coulson hadn't actually said, but Clint was ready to swear she'd been telling the truth about trying to go back for the rest. 

_She did better than I did._

Maybe she'd just had more to fight for. Not everyone could be as easily redeemed as she and the brainwashed assassins like her. Or maybe she was just a better person than he was.

Did she think of them as her sisters, in some way? Did she spend nights wondering how she could have tried harder to save them? 

Should he stop projecting his deep-seated psychological problems onto a foreign and possibly hostile asset? _Yes._ He rolled and went to sleep.

*

Natalia stared at the ceiling, exploring the new calm in her head, secretly awed at how easy it was to control her thoughts now. Someone knocked. “Who is it?”

“Lara Rosales.”

Why was she even bothering knocking? Natalia was irritated. “I can’t open the door from this side.”

“I know. Is it all right if I come in?”

Natalia pictured the guards snickering at the exchange. “Suit yourself.” She sat up. The door slid open. Dr. Rosales came inside and held out a paper grocery bag.

Natalia didn’t take it. She looked at Dr. Rosales warily. “What is this?”

The doctor reached into the bag— Natalia tensed— and pulled out something green and oblong. “It’s an avocado.”

Natalia stared at her.

Without further invitation, the doctor put the bag on the table and started pulling things out of it. “Peanut butter, high in protein and fat,” she said. “Coconut milk— high in fat, you can drink it, add it to regular milk…” She put those two on the table with another avocado.

“What the hell is going on,” Natalia said.

“I tried to find you before I left, but you weren’t here.”

“Yes. Agent Coulson wanted me to verify that they’d found the correct scientist. Or the name of the correct scientist.” Her mouth twisted.

“What happened?”

“Apparently, the Red Room traced the antidote back to her, and killed her.”

Dr. Rosales made a face. “I’m sorry.”

Natalia frowned. She hadn’t known the scientist _personally_ — she wouldn’t have cared if she had. She shook her head once, and gestured to the bag. “Explain.”

“I went off-base for some things and, figuring that you wouldn’t request better food, bought some stuff that’s easy to get down and high in fat,” Dr. Rosales said. “‘Good’ fat, if you want to sound like a soccer mom about it.”

“A what.”

“Never mind. Anyway, it should help reverse the weight loss you’re experiencing.”

Natalia looked from her to the bag and back to her. “How do I know this isn’t a ploy to get me to take some drug you don’t want to tell me about?”

Dr. Rosales looked taken aback. “The containers are unopened. Do you want to see the receipt?”

Natalia had expected her to go with the “if we wanted to drug you without your knowledge, we wouldn’t have to hide it in food” angle, which had the advantage of being true. Was the doctor trying not to draw her attention to that fact, or did she honestly not think like that? She was such a weird mixture of perceptiveness and naïvete, it was hard to get a read on her. “They won’t let me have a knife to open the avocado.”

Dr. Rosales reached into her back pocket and pulled out a plastic knife.

Natalia stared at her. “How _stupid_ are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You shut yourself in a room with me and then hand me a knife? I could kill you before the guards could get the door open.”

“I really don’t think you could. Do you want to?”

What _was_ it about scientists, that they had absolutely no sense of self-preservation, and kept trying to gather data even in the face of threats? “… That’s not the point. Look, you can’t give me this, if they catch me with a knife they’ll throw me in prison. Or try to kill me.”

“I cleared it with Agent Coulson, and the agent in charge of your security.”

“ _What_?”

“Well, it’s _plastic_.”

“Are you _completely_ lacking in imagination, or do you just not want to think about what I could do with a plastic knife?”

“We both know you don’t need a weapon to be deadly,” Dr. Rosales said. “I guess they don’t think they’re making things much worse by giving you this.”

That was sensible. But _disturbing_. As ridiculous as it was for S.H.I.E.L.D. to be treating her like an armed grenade that could go off at any minute, the alternative was… 

What would happen, when they stopped watching her like a threat and started treating her like an asset and a human being? If she'd been scared of novelty, she might have been scared of that.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

Dr. Rosales didn’t put on a confused face this time. She folded her arms, and leaned against the wall— _not_ against the door. Was it just a coincidence that she’d left the exit clear? “Because you’re my patient, and I want to do everything in my power to ensure your recovery.”

“Were you like this in prison too?” Natalia demanded.

Dr. Rosales grinned. “No. One reason I like working for S.H.I.E.L.D. Far more freedom and far less bureaucracy.”

Natalia folded her own arms across her chest. “And how do you define ‘recovery’?”

“I believe the goal you set was that you wanted to gain control of the tools the Red Room had left you.”

Being quoted at herself disarmed the argument Natalia was going to make. “And you think feeding me up is necessary for that?”

“I think feeding you up will help you get through treatment to recovery more easily,” Dr. Rosales said. “If you don’t want it, of course you don’t have to take it. It’s up to you. It’s just an option.”

Natalia was used to having to force her own options, not have them handed to her in a paper bag. “It’s fine,” she muttered, then made herself say: “thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Dr. Rosales regained her usual slightly manic cheer. “There’s some other stuff in there, too. None of it needs to be refrigerated.”

“Okay.” Natalia didn’t know what else to say.

“Until tomorrow, Ms. Romanova.”

“Yeah.”

When Dr. Rosales was gone, Natalia glanced through the bag, then considered the knife. It would be child's play to hide it somewhere on her body. Would it make a difference? Dr. Rosales was right— she could easily take down a guard with her bare hands and steal one of their weapons. There was no point in working with a makeshift weapon unless she ended up with tighter, and more competent, security.

And unless she wanted to break out or kill her handlers. She didn’t, actually. That still surprised her at times. But even without the Red Room in her head, groping to grab the strings again, thinking through her options was a hard habit to break. With effort, she stopped thinking about weaponizing her surroundings, and sliced open the avocado.

*

The next treatment session was just as grueling as the first one, but afterwards, the stillness in her mind had intensified. The contrast brought home just how much she'd had her back up against the wall, before S.H.I.E.L.D. had started breaking down the walls. It was a sobering realization. How long would she have been able to hold out, without intervention? And without the others? She'd been counting on having their help once she'd rescued them.

It was sobering in another way, too. How else had that bastard Madame and that bastard Ivan fucked her up, that she might not notice until it was too late? She spun elaborate fantasies of killing them slowly, slice by slice. She almost regretted that S.H.I.E.L.D. had taken the opportunity from her.

As soon as she could convincingly look recovered, Coulson took her through her history to the end of 2004. “I've seen a lot of agents around,” she said, casually, when they were done. “Not Agent Barton, though. Did you have him hauled out and shot?”

He looked at her sharply. “You seem pretty sanguine about that possibility.”

“I didn’t ask him to stick his neck out for me.” She was having trouble admitting to herself that she was glad he had, because that felt too much like a debt. But it was hard to call them even.

“This isn’t Soviet Russia,” Coulson said drily. “Agent Barton is fine. He’s at another S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. I’ll tell him you asked.”

She almost said _don’t_ , then let it go. Protesting would only reinforce the impression that she cared.

After she told Coulson everything up to taking the job on Palshys, they gave her a third round of treatment. She slept for two days straight this time, waking up only to stagger to the toilet or worry down whatever food they'd left for her. She had searing nightmares that kept her from feeling rested. 

On the third day, Dr. Rosales pronounced “much less crazy.” “Those scans look much nicer now,” she said. “I really think this will do.” She grinned with an open, honest delight that Natalia had heretofore only seen on children. Not that she'd spent much time around delighted children. “I win again!”

“We’ll add it to your tab,” Coulson said.

Dr. Rosie pointed her pen at him. “To my line of credit,” she corrected him firmly.

“So what happens now?” Natalia asked, before they could get caught up in their… whatever.

They both looked at her. Dr. Rosie’s face was still untroubled— Natalia was no longer her problem. Coulson’s was blank. “Hmm,” he said.

_Are you going to haul me out and shoot me_ now? But they wouldn’t have put so much effort into fixing her, if that were the case. 

'What happens now' turned out to be a strange doctor giving her a very long psychological examination. She thought it was supposed to be grueling, but they had a ways to go before they could meet _that_ bar. The day after, Agent Coulson came to her room and handed her a bag. “Put those on. You’ll need to blend better.” 

She pulled a pair of blue jeans, a dark green blouse, and a light jacket out of the bag. “Blend better for what?” She stepped into the bathroom to change, and left the door cracked so she could hear him.

“For the answer to your question.”

She checked herself in the mirror. Her roots were starting to grow out, and they were noticeable. “What’s my cover supposed to be?”

Coulson gave her a once-over when she came out. “That’ll fine.”

She followed him to a garage. They’d left her escort behind; for the first time since her walk with Dr. Rosales, she was almost unaccompanied. Coulson wasn’t acting like a guard, either-- though she knew he was paying attention. He got behind the wheel of a nondescript black sedan that practically screamed ‘covert government agency vehicle,' and they headed off base. “Fort Scott. It’s just on the border,” he said.

She eyed him. “Are Kansas's laws different from Missouri's on something important?”

He smiled sardonically, but she didn’t know why. “Now? No.” His amusement faded. “Fort Scott is a spoke in Kansas City’s web of human trafficking. S.H.I.E.L.D. suspects that someone is using that trade as a cover to transport information and drugs.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. cares about illegal drugs?”

“When they’re powerful mutagens intended to be weaponized and used to start a civil war, yes.” He let her digest that for a minute. “We think a group we've been watching is trying to move a scientist they're holding prisoner. We need to stop him from getting to the people who have the drugs. They could force him to make some very dangerous things.”

“Where do we find them?”

“We don’t. This is just a courier mission. We need to get some information out.”

So they weren’t giving her anything difficult, for her first test. That wasn’t surprising. She settled back, and watched the scenery. It was a long ride, and it gave her the opportunity she’d wanted for some time— an uninterrupted change to watch Coulson. It was disconcertingly unilluminating.

As they got closer to the Missouri border, she said, “What can you tell me about your person on the inside?”

“He’s… not really our man on the inside. He’s reluctantly helping us.”

“Define ‘reluctantly.’”

“We saved his little brother last year. He was grateful enough, at the time, to offer to help us extend the favor to others.”

“From human traffickers? They usually prefer women and girls.”

“From some of their associates. He was kidnapped. There was a herd of bison. It’s a long story. Anyway, he’s passing along flash drives from someone who _is_ our man on the inside. But this man doesn’t have any excuse to leave Fort Scott, and most of our agents would, unfortunately, stand out. You are very good at _not_ standing out.”

“Where do I find this guy?”

“At Mike’s Chopper Shop. He’s Mike. You’re going to ask if the Honda he got for you is in. He'll try to blow you off. You’re going to specify that it’s a 2001, red, and that you already put 40% down. Then you’ll ask what the problem is with the man up north who was supposed to be selling him the bike. That’s how he’ll know we sent you. He’ll give you the flash drive. If anyone is around, make sure you say you hitched for two hours to check up on the bike because he wasn’t answering his phone. That’ll discourage them from looking for you in town. Lose any tail, then get to 7 and 54. I have some things to check on.”

“What kind of trouble should I expect?”

“Garden-variety thugs, unless you really make them suspicious. Don’t do that.”

“Do I get a weapon?”

“Feel free to take one off the thugs.”

“Okay, stop the car.”

He turned onto the next side road and pulled off, noting as he did, “I don’t count as a thug, Ms. Romanova.”

“Where’s the hood release?” 

Coulson popped the hood. She climbed out and bent over the engine until she found something cool enough to touch. She smeared grease all over her hand, and then in a line across her cheek.

“Is that all you needed here?”

“Yeah.” She got back in the car. As they headed down the road, she spread the grease around some strategic locations, to make it look like she’d been doing genuine mechanical work, and to help with any straight men that she needed distracted. “I need a knife.”

To his credit, Coulson didn’t hesitate before handing over a pocketknife. She sliced open the knees of the jeans to make them easier to rip, and tore the hems. Her shirt got similar treatment. She rumpled her hair so it would look like she’d done a lot of walking in the wind. “I don’t suppose you have a bandanna.”

“No. Would a man’s handkerchief do?”

“I don’t think you’ll want it back.”

“Yes, I had worked that out.” He handed her a crisply folded white square from his breast pocket. She made sure it didn’t smell conspicuously of cologne, and subjected it to the same greasing and tearing process. Then she tied it over her head and checked herself in the mirror.

“Too bad about the shoes.” She surveyed them critically. “But barefoot would be laying it on too strong.” She tugged them off and went to work on the joint of sole and upper, trying to make them look like cheap shoes that were tearing apart. “You _might_ have considered this when you provided the clothes.”

“You seem to be doing an adequate job.”

Coulson made her memorize a phone number, then handed her a cell phone. “That number is your number of last resort for emergencies. You can reach me under ‘David’ if you have to. But I might not be able to pick up. The other numbers go to various S.H.I.E.L.D. offices. It’s… sort of like a help line.” He gave her some bills and dropped her a mile outside of Fort Scott. She rolled the phone around on the side of the road until it looked suitably battered, waited fifteen minutes so no one would associate her with Coulson’s car, and started walking.

She found Mike’s Chopper Shop on the north edge of town. As she approached, she saw a big man behind the counter, whom she assumed was Mike, and two other men leaning against the wall talking to each other. One was wearing mechanic’s coveralls. Were these the garden-variety thugs?

She walked up to the counter and slammed her hands down. “Where the _hell_ is my Honda, Mike?” She imitated the accents of the people she'd passed on the street.

He looked up, startled— and by more than the _thud_ , though that gave him a good cover. “What?” he asked blankly.

“Don’t fucking give me that, my red 2001 Honda that I put forty percent down on already, you asshole. What’s the problem with your buddy up north who was gonna sell it to you, he get a better offer? _You_ get a better offer?”

“Hey, calm down, _sweetheart_ ,” he said. “Yeah, I remember it now. He sent me something about it last week. Found something wrong with it and didn’t want to ship it until he fixed it. We’re doing you a favor, all right. Just calm down, I’ll check.”

“You’d _better_ check!” she called after him. “I hitched two hours because you wouldn’t pick up your damn phone!”

The other two were chuckling. She gave them an irritated glance, which told her that they’d already categorized her and dismissed her as a potential threat. “You should stick with scooters, honey,” the mechanic advised, wiping his hands on a grease rag.

The other one elbowed him. “Maybe she likes all that power between her legs. Hey, baby, I gotta ride you should try.”

She flipped them off. “Hey,” Mike called from inside the office, “leave the customer alone. You, you can come in here.”

She leaned against the inside of the door and crossed her arms. “Your mechanic’s friend’s an asshole.” She checked out the line of sight from where the other men were standing. Were there cameras? None in the small room; none in the garage would be able to see into the office.

“Yeah, tell me about it.” He waved her to the seat in front of the battered desk. It was covered with catalogs. She dropped them by the door with a _thwack_ , and conveniently, the door slid closed a few inches.

“Yeah, here, he said his guy turned it on to run it down here and noticed something funny about the oil pump, so he turned around and took it back.” He turned his screen so she could read an email— which was actually about an oil pump, to his credit— and when he took his hand away from the desk, there was a flash drive nestled among the papers. 

She bent forward towards the monitor— to the guys outside, it would look like she was giving Mike a look down her shirt, so they wouldn’t think twice— and leaned onto the desk, palming the flash drive. “Yeah, I see,” she said, sounding surly but placated. “When does he think it’ll be ready?”

“Should be here next week this time. You got the other sixty?”

She gave him a scornful look. “Of course I have the sixty. You better have the bike.”

“I’ll have the bike,” he promised. “Was there anything else?”

“No.” She walked out of the office. The two men were still laughing. She flipped them off again for good measure, and headed back into town.

She found a dingy little diner and watched the door long enough to make sure she wasn’t being followed. Then she finished her food, left a crumpled dollar for a tip, and headed for the edge of town by the back alleys. If anyone caught up with her and asked why she wasn’t leaving the way she came, she would say that she was going to go see her friend from high school, did they think she was going to waste a trip into town since that idiot Mike couldn’t figure out how to answer his phone?

But no one tried to follow her. If the two men at the garage _had_ been the thugs, they hadn't taken her seriously enough to connect her with the spy they were supposed to be watching for. It made her job so much easier when that happened. Act the right way and get people to write you off, and you were effectively invisible.

She reached the intersection and lurked under the deep cover of a tree. There was nothing keeping her here: she could vanish into rural Kansas, and S.H.I.E.L.D. would never find her. They'd found her the first time because of the jobs she'd taken, but now that they'd fixed her head, maybe she'd be good for something besides assassinations. She could just run and start over. 

But S.H.I.E.L.D. had already given her a chance to start over. She wouldn't gain anything by running, and she wasn't foolish enough to believe she could lead something like a normal life, no matter how many times S.H.I.E.L.D. electrocuted her.

Coulson showed up about an hour later, as twilight deepened. He pulled off the road at the corner and got out, pretending to be having engine trouble. She watched for a minute to make sure no one was pursuing him before she slipped out of the shadows and into the passenger seat.

Coulson slammed the hood and got in the car. “Successful?”

“Yes.” She handed him the flash drive.

“Good. Any problems?”

“No. If those were the thugs you described, they wrote me off as a threat.”

“Good.”

They were on the edge of Fort Scott when she glanced in the side mirror. “We have a tail.”

He checked the rear mirror again— he’d been doing that regularly, but that didn’t mean she was going to relax _her_ watchfulness. “Oh, them. Stay down, and take off that bandanna.” He conscientiously stopped at the stop sign, and then floored it as soon as he had crossed the intersection.

“Very inconspicuous,” she commented as she hunched down.

“They already know it’s me. I’m not letting them follow me back to base.” He killed the headlights, accelerated to speeds that were frankly alarming when someone else was driving, and rocketed down the highway. She got ready to dodge the airbags if they crashed. After about four minutes Coulson braked hard and turned sharply right. He accelerated again, then turned the car around, pulled under a tree, and waited, engine idling. The pickup truck that had been following them roared past on the highway.

“I think we’re safe,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “And I don’t think we’re in Kansas any more.”

Of course they weren’t in Kansas any more. They’d passed the sign three quarters of a mile back. How had he missed that? “Those guys don’t seem very good at their jobs.”

“Oh, don’t say that. Are you familiar with the concept of jinxes?”

“I’m not superstitious.” She’d never believed in a higher power, whether God or fate or karma. The Red Room had been plenty higher power for her. Did that make her an attempted theocide?

They returned to the base without incident. Coulson sat her down in an empty office and introduced her to the concept of after-action reports, which were bizarre. Filing a report meant you were working for someone long-term. It meant someone was keeping track of you. It meant what you were doing had been neatly absorbed into a _bureaucracy_ , that turned blood and terror and death into something to be classified and then put away in a drawer. It seemed like a cold-blooded idea to her, but if it meant S.H.I.E.L.D. could be matter-of-fact about violence, then she appreciated it. 

The Red Room hadn't taught them anything that didn't pertain directly to death and deception, but Natalia had picked up enough over the years that she could write serviceably. The actual report didn't give her very much trouble; turning it in gave her pause, because she couldn't remember another time that she'd written something down and signed it using her real name. She was giving S.H.I.E.L.D. a literal paper trail back to Natalia Romanova. That bothered her. It also made her feel more real. She didn't know which feeling was stronger.

She didn't dwell on it, opting for sleep instead. Early the next morning, she woke covered in sweat, her heart racing from a dream she couldn’t remember. She took deep breaths, and then banged on the door until it opened.

The guard who opened it was wary. “Is there a problem?”

“Do you have somewhere to spar?”

“To _what?_ ”

“To _spar_ ,” she repeated impatiently. “Fake fights. Drills.”

“We’re not supposed to let you out,” his partner said. They both looked young— kids, really. She didn’t think S.H.I.E.L.D. hired anyone who was unproven, but whatever these two were good at, it wasn't acting authoritative.

“I just want a good workout so I can sleep.” She made herself look unthreatening, but not so unthreatening it would look like she was doing it on purpose. “I’ve… I’ve seen some terrible things, and with the things they’re doing to my brain, it’s all coming back.” She looked down, then up. “I think if I get exhausted enough, the nightmares will stop.”

The two guards exchanged uneasy glances.

“Look, I’m unarmed. You know they have me under 24-7 surveillance in there. I just want a couple rounds.”

“We’re familiar with your file. You don’t need a weapon to be deadly.”

“If I wanted to kill you, do you think I would be standing here arguing with you about it?” She looked up at them from under her eyelashes. “You can call more guards. I don’t care. I just need to get out.”

They exchanged looks again. “There’s a gym on the next level up,” the taller one said. “Three rounds, then we’re done.”

She smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”

When they got to the gym, she fluttered her eyelashes and pouted and talked her shorter guard into coming into the ring with her. _Thinking with their dicks,_ she thought dispassionately as he took off his shoes and jacket. He approached cautiously, reluctant to throw the first punch. She helped him get over his shyness by lunging at him, ducking under his belated guard, and socking him in the jaw.

The poor, foolish boy never had a chance, but he tried valiantly. She held back enough so his partner didn't think she was trying to kill him, and shoot her on the spot. That didn’t hamper her much. The boy wasn’t good enough to give her any sort of a challenge—he was going to have a lot of bruises-- but it was still the most satisfying exercise she’d had in nearly a month. She’d _missed_ matching herself against another person, even a slow and predictable one. Watching her opponent, calculating all their possible moves and her own at the same time, and then the actual sharp, controlled movement itself— it was exhilarating.

She felt the vibrations in the floor right before a full squad arrived and put her squarely in their sights. She didn't freeze, but moved with exaggerated slowness to reach down and offer a hand to the boy she'd just floored, again.

He flushed with more than exertion. “I think I’ve had enough, ma’am.”

She gave him another warm smile. “Thank you.”

“This was, um. Very educational. I can clearly see areas of weakness that I need to fix.”

_Your entire hand-to-hand-combat training is an area of weakness you need to fix_. “Don’t feel bad.” She pitched her voice to carry across the room. “I’ve never actually met anyone who could best me at hand-to-hand.” It was almost true; she'd fought Madame to a draw, once, but Madame was dead now. And Natalia had survived her.

She looked around the room. “Anyone else?” Maybe she'd wounded S.H.I.E.L.D.'s pride by taking down their comrade so easily, or maybe they just wanted to floor the famous Black Widow, but whatever it was, three of them made tentative motions forward. She was careful to keep her smile from being as predatory as she felt.

Three to one wasn’t a fair fight, or four to one, or five to one, but by the time she'd talked half of the agents into the ring together, it was challenging enough to satisfy her. Her opponents were starting to look winded, but none of them were willing to admit defeat first. One or two of them were getting angry, and sloppy— she hit them hard, because she was feeling generous, and someone who got wild when they got angry needed to be taught a lesson. Finally one of the angry ones got lucky and tackled her from behind, an arm across her windpipe. Natalia simply fell backwards. He landed hard and broke her fall; when she tumbled away and sprang to her feet, he just groaned. She crouched, cautiously, in case it was a trap or a distraction.

“Okay, we’re done here,” the most senior guard said firmly. “You, Romanova, stand by the wall and don’t move.” He squatted by the side of the downed man. “You with us?”

“Nngh,” the man said. “Should’ve seen that coming.”

Natalia silently agreed.

“How badly are you hurt?”

“Just… bruised, winded.” He struggled to a sitting position, then looked at her. “I wouldn’t want to meet you in a dark alley.”

At least the fall had knocked some sense into him. “You shouldn’t get carried away like that. It’s a good way to get killed.”

“Yeah, I’m beginning to see that.” He accepted the hand the other soldier offered him, and staggered to his feet. 

“You four—“ said the senior soldier, “escort Ms. Romanova back to her quarters, _directly_ back, do not pass Go, do not pass another gym, do not collect any more bruises. The rest of you, get back to the command post before anyone notices how long you’ve been gone.”

No one argued with him. The soldiers looked guilty as they walked her back. She wondered how they were going to explain their spectacular bruises. _She_ wasn't going to have any conspicuous bruises; she'd made sure of it. They locked her in with a firm “Good _night_ , ma'am.” She rinsed off the sweat and dirt of the mats; then she curled up on the cot, and slept dreamlessly.

Instead of the usual guard who brought her breakfast, it was Agent Coulson. He put down the tray and sat without an invitation. “There was a remarkable piece of surveillance footage waiting for me this morning,” he said mildly.

“Oh?” She poked at the eggs warily.

“If you wanted a sparring partner, you could have just asked.”

“I did ask,” she said innocently.

“You could have asked someone who’s not under orders to incapacitate you if you misbehave.”

“Oh.” She took a cautious bite. It was edible. She swallowed. “I want a sparring partner.”

“I’ll see what can be arranged. When word of your performance last night gets around, most of the possibilities are going to be scared off.”

“Good.” She didn’t want someone who frightened easily.

“If you have that much extra energy, we have more work for you.”

“Fine.”

“You told the guard you were having nightmares?”

“I was manipulating him.”

“Hmm.”

But he must have said something to Dr. Rosales, because the next time they met, she asked Natalia how she was sleeping. 

“Fine.”

“No nightmares?”

“I’ve always had nightmares.”

The next morning, they sent her on another trial mission, this time with Agent Woo.

*

Clint counted himself lucky still to have all his extremities when he finally made it out of Tibet, and spent the three long flights back to New York asleep in a warm blanket. When he got to the Manhattan base, he had to cool his heels waiting for someone from Intel to show up to open the damn door so he could leave the camera's microcard with them. It was the second shift, which wasn't as fully-staffed as the day shift, but it still shouldn't have taken _this_ long.

He put in another call for someone to open up the shop. Then he considered picking the lock. He could do it, sure, but he didn't think he could do it without getting caught. Was it worth having to “explain” himself to Security... again? He couldn't do anything as simple as slide the damn thing under the _door._ Intel was too paranoid to have left a gap there.

While he was debating, the door opened. He grumbled silently. _Someone had been in there the whole time?_

The woman looked flustered. “Sorry. I just got the message. I was on the phone. Calling home. You know.”

He didn't know, but she clearly expected him to. He held out the microcard.

“It's, uh, Father's Day,” she explained.

“Oh.” Would she just _take_ the damn thing already?

“Do you, uh... Good thing I reminded you, right?” She smiled cheerfully.

“My dad's dead.”

“O— _oh._ I'm sorry.”

“I'm not.” He stuck his arm out farther. Finally she took the hint, and the card. He fled before she felt obligated to inflict any more social niceties in him, and found Coulson to give him a verbal report.

“Good work, Barton,” Coulson said when he was done.

“Where to next, sir? The Gobi Desert? Amundsen-Scott Station?”

“Do you think Director Fury needs suggestions?”

Chastened, Clint settled back in his seat. “No, sir.”

“We have something in mind for you. We’re waiting to see if it pans out. Consider yourself on call for the next three days. Don’t leave headquarters.”

“Yes, sir.” He made a vague doorwise motion, then turned back. “How’s it going with Romanova?

“It’s progressing. I think I finally got through to her in terms she can understand.”

Clint frowned. “She’s not stupid.”

“Not in the least. But she’s lived her life in a state of perpetual trauma, and she has no idea how to relate to normal people.”

“Good thing S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t have many of those.”

“She asked about you.”

Clint blinked. “She did?”

“After a fashion. I think her exact words were, ‘Have you had him hauled out and shot?’”

“And was she disappointed when you said no?”

“She didn’t seem deeply invested in it either way.”

“Aw, it’s nice to know she cares.” He became serious again. “I’m assuming she still hasn’t gone on any murderous rampages?”

“No, and I dislike your use of the word ‘still.’”

“I could have said ‘yet,’ sir.”

Coulson didn't dignify that with a response. “She beat up a five-man team of guards the other day.”

“How’d that happen?”

“They volunteered.”

“Huh.” Clint digested this. “Someone has to keep them on their toes.”

“Was there anything else, Barton?”

Clint grinned, because Coulson only took that tone when Clint had succeeded in annoying him. “No, sir.”

*

The mission with Woo was challenging enough that she came back with a knot on her temple. Dr. Rosales sent her to the medbay for a brain scan in case the impact had affected her recovery. The tech running the scan had just disconnected the last electrode when a giant robotic arm broke through the far wall with a metallic screech, and sent another tech flying across the room.

The chaos that followed was impressively restrained--either S.H.I.E.L.D. trained its people well, or this kind of thing happened a lot. Someone sounded the alarm, and the doctors and techs lifted the patients who couldn't walk. It wasn't until the robot arm came back for another swing that the orderly group turned into a rush for the door. But the man who'd been supervising her ran _towards_ the disintegrating wall-- oh. The tech who'd gotten thrown across the room had left a patient there, anchored with a nest of wires. Her tech was trying to get the man out-- he hadn’t even stopped to weigh the risks and strategies before charging into danger to save someone who was vulnerable. Natalia didn’t understand that, but she could appreciate the boldness.

Besides, this tech had never stuck her with a needle without asking her first.

There-- she saw what she needed. Dodging the sparks, she sprinted over to the long cables connecting two of the heaviest pieces of equipment. The next time the arm broke through the wall, she threw the cables around it. The arm strained, but the cables held. The tech unhooked the last tubes and helped the patient up, giving Natalia a grateful glance over his shoulder. She ducked around the machine to follow them out, but a hard blow to her back sent her flying.

She slammed into something solid and slid to the ground. The smashing sounds seemed far off-- the robot had inadvertently thrown her clear of its zone of destruction. She slipped into semi-consciousness, and the next few moments were hazy, until she heard the screaming. Someone was screaming for help. She sounded young. She sounded panicked.

Natalia opened her eyes.

“Please, somebody! _Somebody_.”

She was in a lab that was blocked at one end by a hulking robot. One of its arms was pinioned by strong restraints; the other was causing the damage, and trying to tear away the restraints. Behind, trapped by its bulk, a young woman was crouching with some sort of cannon-- probably a mechanical tool, from the cable attached. Why wasn’t she running? Was she paralyzed with fear? _Civilians_ , Natalia thought, getting quietly, carefully, and unsteadily to her feet— and then saw that the woman was protecting a man who was pinned by a piece of rubble. His leg was at an awkward angle, obviously broken. Where the hell was S.H.I.E.L.D.’s response team? She looked around, and saw that the robot had thrown a massive piece of equipment right in front of the door, where it was sparking ominously. And the giant machines she’d used to trap the arm were on fire, blocking the hole in the wall. _Oh_.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had had some idea of the danger the robot posed, because they'd posted a guard, who was dead on the floor in front of Natalia. Natalia tugged the rifle from her arms and took her pistol for good measure. As she grabbed the extra ammo, the robot broke free of its restraint, and the tech’s screams turned hysterical.

Natalia sprinted down the aisle. “HEY!” She opened fire with the rifle. She didn’t want to waste ammo, but it got the thing to turn away from the techs, and told her how penetrable the metal shell was: not penetrable at all. _Whose fucking_ brilliant _idea was it to put the research labs right next to the medical bay?_ She ducked as the robot hurled a piece of equipment from the bench at her head. “If that gun of yours can do anything,” she called to the tech, dodging to the left as the robot worked on tearing the entire bench out of the ground, “now would be a good time to find out!”

“Ah. I,” the tech said over the grinding sounds of systematic demolition.

“STOP PANICKING AND SHOOT!”

There was a _fwoosh_ , and the flare of reflected light brightened the room. The robot stopped attacking the bench and turned back towards the two in the corner.

“It’s not working!” the tech screamed.

_Fucking hell_. Natalia jumped up to the bench and launched herself onto the robot’s back. A panel was open the back of its “head.” She stuck her hand inside and started yanking on wires. Only a few of them came free, and the robot didn’t stop. It backed toward the wall, intending to squish her; she vaulted onto its shoulders and straddled its head. The impact knocked her loose, and she grabbed a pipe in the damaged ceiling as the robot tried to flatten her again. Were its eyes vulnerable? She dropped onto its shoulders and fired straight at the glowing bit. The round ricocheted, barely missing her hand. The robot reached up with its giant arm, intent on plucking her from its shoulders and smashing her; she dropped down, one arm around the base of its head, and drew the pistol with the other, firing it into the hole in the back of its head. This time the ricochet didn’t surprise her.

“It’s a miracle of redundant engineering!” the tech called.

Natalia fell to the ground with a grunt and rolled forward between the robot’s legs as it tried to slam her with its arm. “I can see that.”

“That's why S.H.I.E.L.D. was interested. The programming’s pretty terrible and it’s not very fast, but the structure is brilliant.”

Natalia grabbed a machine from the debris and hurled it directly into the robot’s face. “Can you tell me anything more _useful_?”

“Uh.”

“Any secret codes that can take this thing down?” She somersaulted backwards, because the bench was to her right and the techs were cowering to her left.

“The interface is protected! We were still trying to reach it.”

_Fucking wonderful_. Natalia sprang onto the bench top and dove forward into the aisle, trying to lure the robot away from the civilians. It was working— she heard it try to pry the bench up and then come shuffling after her. But as soon as she reached the next aisle, it stopped, then turned back. The techs were easier prey. _Fuck_.

There was a crashing noise by the door-- someone on the other side had knocked a hole in the debris. “Get out of there!” a soldier called. “We'll seal the room and flood it with liquid nitrogen.”

Natalia didn't bother disguising her disdain. “There are civilians trapped, and the lab's been opened to the med bay!” She popped up over the bench, shooting at the robot. It turned to her, but once it saw how far away she was, it turned back to the techs. 

She'd have to get closer to distract it, but she couldn’t dodge it forever, and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s only idea was unspeakably stupid. The thing's shell was impenetrable. If she couldn't come up with something fast, it was going to squash the techs with those massive arms--

Actually, that was an idea. 

She vaulted over the bench and sprinted forward, firing to get its attention. By the time it completed its slow turn, she was close enough to leap onto the arm, then the head. She clung to its face, hoping like hell that its eyes didn’t have lasers. _I hope the tech would have_ mentioned _that_. The robot brought its arm up to squash her-- she hung on until the last possible second, then dropped to the ground and rolled away. Unable to stop in time, the robot smashed into its own head. She jumped back to its shoulders, arms burning with exertion, to see the damage. The head was dented, but not cracked. _Damn it._ She was going to have to do it again— she threw herself sideways onto its shoulder as it tried to smash her off the back of its head. Her leg got caught and wrenched, and she gritted her teeth against the pain, ignoring it in favor of something more important— this time, the robot's arm had cracked the inner casing.

“Here, use this!” The tech threw the flamethrower up to her. She wrapped her legs around the robot’s neck to give her the leverage to catch it, then pulled herself back up. She pointed the thing at the hole in the robot’s head and pulled the trigger. _Yes_ — the inner casing, already weakened, was buckling in the heat. The robot tried to knock her off. She tightened her legs and let the rest of her fall. Her back and shoulders slammed into the robot, but the arm hit the back of the robot’s head with a loud _crack_. Metal plates buckled and exposed something that looked important. The flamethrower wouldn’t reach from this angle-- she swung herself up and fired three shots into the gaping hole, then used the momentum to launch herself up and grab the pipe in the ceiling. Sparks flew out of the hole. The robot shuddered-- and fell, away from the techs, arms twitching without purpose. Natalia exhaled.

_Oh, shit_. She could see fire flaring in the mauled head-- she dove, and fell-- she hit something hard and passed out.

*

She smelled antiseptic and heard beeping. 

A hospital of some sort-- a _strange_ hospital, where she’d spent an unknown amount of time unconscious. _Not good._ She checked her body without letting on that she was awake: she was sore and bruised, but nothing was bad enough to impair her functioning. She wasn't restrained. Now to get out—

“You’re in the fourth floor medical wing of the S.H.I.E.L.D. annex in Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri,” said a familiar voice. “You’ve been unconscious about twenty minutes, you have no significant injuries, and there is no giant robot stored adjacent to this medical facility.”

She opened her eyes and saw Agent Coulson seated by her bedside with a tablet. What was he doing here? Surely he had better things to do with his time. How had he known she would react badly to waking up in an unfamiliar medical facility? Or maybe he was just doing it… as a courtesy? Was that what that concept meant? “The robot?”

“Deactivated. It’s in the process of being disassembled now.”

“What was it?”

“We captured it from the laboratories of a rogue general we took down last year. He was trying to make a prototype for battle.”

“Doesn’t seem to have been a very good prototype.”

“No. Its primary research interest was that it was made to be very, very hard to kill.”

“I noticed,” she muttered. “What about the techs?”

“They’re both fine. Agent Sullivan may have a limp from the rubble. They said you got thrown into the laboratory and then saved their lives.”

“Mm.” There was nothing restraining her; therefore, she had no reason to stay. She sat up, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Nothing hurt significantly worse than it had when she was horizontal.

“Mr. Romero said you bought him enough time to get the last patient out,” Coulson continued.

“Hmm.” She stood; her legs took her weight, but the left one hurt— oh, yeah, it had gotten trapped against the robot at an odd angle. Had she sprained her knee? What hurt most was a massive bruise on her left shoulder blade— it felt like the whole thing was bruised— and a fierce ache in her abdomen, right below her diaphragm. What was that from? She pulled up her shirt and looked, but the skin was unmarked. Internal bleeding?

“You slammed into Agent Williams’s head when you tackled her to the ground after the robot exploded.”

She frowned. “I must have been thrown in that direction by the blast.”

“Hmm,” Coulson said. “In any case, she and Agent Sullivan are both very grateful to you for saving their lives. As is S.H.I.E.L.D.”

She shrugged that off. It was a fluke; she wasn't usually _saving_ lives. “Don’t count on me making a habit out of it. Does S.H.I.E.L.D. usually bring toys home that it doesn’t know how to control?”

“R &D does get… overconfident,” Coulson admitted. “You know how scientists are.”

She didn’t, really, but she filed that information away under ‘scientists: prone to overconfidence,’ next to ‘scientists: prone to monologuing about their research’ and ‘scientists: prone to ignoring danger to gather data.’ “Can I go?”

“The doctor would prefer to evaluate you again now that you’re conscious.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Your chart is at the end of the bed. You might want to take a look at your injuries.”

She grabbed the clipboard and scanned the messy scrawl. Massive bruising, no internal bleeding, strained knee, recommend ice and rest, monitor for possible concussion.

Coulson did not sigh when she put the clipboard back, but made a face of long-suffering. She didn't know why, since she was the one who was injured, not him. He reached into an inner pocket and handed her an extra-large bottle of painkillers, still sealed. “We’ve moved you.”

“Oh?”

He handed her a keycard. “You can come and go as you please but you’ll still have an escort. Someone will be checking up on you to make sure you’re not dead in a corner,” he added.

She gave him an unimpressed look. She’d had far worse— which he knew, since he now had her record in exhaustive detail.

“And we have a mission for you.”

“What am I picking up this time?”

“Nothing.”

She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. “Well?”

“Get back to 100%. Then we’ll brief you.”


	3. Ontario

She didn’t know what to expect next. Another test of her loyalty? Or her competence? If she understood the word correctly, she didn’t have any loyalty. What she did have was an affiliation.

Coulson and Barton were waiting for her in the conference room. It was the first time she’d seen Barton since the night he’d brought her in. “Agent Coulson. Agent Barton.” She took a seat that would let her watch the door and both men.

“Ms. Romanova.” Coulson slid a manila folder to each of them. “We’re sending the two of you on a mission together. There’s a group that’s trading in improbably high-tech weapons across the Canadian border. Take them down.”

She reached for the folder. “That’s it?”

Coulson’s eyebrows went up. “Do you need more than that?”

He had a point. She’d done more with less.

Coulson stood up. “I have a weapons test to supervise. Agent Barton knows how to reach me if you have any questions.” Then he was gone, leaving her alone with the most dangerous man she’d ever met. It didn’t matter that she could take him in a fight if he could _talk her out of it_.

She focused on the mission and read every piece of the file carefully, then reread them in a different order, looking for new connections. She looked up and waited for Barton to finish. When he did, the first thing he did was give her a onceover. She was evaluating him less frankly than he was evaluating her, but she didn’t think he was fooled.

“How’s S.H.I.E.L.D. treating you?”

“Fine.”

“What happened to your face?”

She touched the bruise over her left eye and cheek. “Punching bag.”

“Hmm.” He flipped his file back to the beginning.

“What’s your take?” she asked.

“Well, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s been watching these guys for a while, and the same faces keep coming up. They don’t have a lot of turn over, they’re insular. We’re gonna have a hard time finding a way in— they won’t hire just any muscle who shows up.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “I can get in.”

He looked up at her. “Okay,” he said, after a pause. “The low turnover says to me that have some sort of ideological tie. Mercenary groups aren’t usually that tight-knit. I’ll have Intel run their faces against some other groups, see what comes up.” He flipped back a page. “According to this, they’ve sold to the same man three times in the last two years, and Canadian intelligence spotted him in Regina last week. Looks like they’ve got another sale lined up.”

“You want to take that angle, then? The prospective buyer?”

“Means you wouldn’t have any backup.”

She raised an eyebrow, just a little. “I never have any backup.”

He shrugged. “What about you, your take?”

She turned a page. “Does S.H.I.E.L.D. have outposts up by the border?”

“Yeah.”

“The file doesn't say where these people are getting the weapons. Not even speculation. There's speculation about everything else, in this file.”

“If the weapons were coming from S.H.I.E.L.D., or some of them...” Barton leaned back in his chair. “Makes sense that they wouldn't put that in the file.”

“Yeah, they're hardly going to give _me_ the one that says 'Oh, by the way, we have a mole.'”

She thought he almost smiled, but it was hard to be sure.

“How were we going to get there?” she asked.

“Easiest would be to get a lift to the closest base to the border.” He thought for a moment. “I'll file a request that says I'm taking you on a training mission. I'll get Coulson to okay it, they'll drop us a bit further south, and we'll get a car.”

She nodded once. It wasn't a bad plan.

“Okay.” He closed the folder. “I’m gonna go talk to Intel and arrange our ride. When can you be ready to go?”

_Let me consult my bustling social calendar first._ “As soon as I get back the weapons you took off me.”

“Talk to Coulson about that. Say, twelve hours, give us time to sleep first?”

“Twelve hours,” she agreed. “I’ll need to pick up some supplies along the way.”

Barton left to go talk to Intel-- _without_ telling her how to find Coulson. Well, if they wanted to test her by having her wandering around the base unsupervised, _she_ wasn't going to point out the potential flaws in that plan. She read the file a third time and went to find her weapons.

*

S.H.I.E.L.D. put them down outside of Fargo. Even at the speed Barton drove, it was a long drive from to Regina. He obviously didn’t feel compelled to make idle conversation. That didn't surprise her, but it made the drive nicer. She watched the riveting scenery. She yawned.

He glanced over. “You bored?”

“Oh, no. I’ve always wanted to see the corn capital of the world.”

“That’s wheat out there, not corn. And the corn capital of the world’s in Minnesota, not North Dakota.”

She looked at him, but his face was blank, and he didn't take his eyes off the road. She settled back and closed her eyes, to rest while she could.

They were past Hillsboro when he said, “So how’s S.H.I.E.L.D. treating you, really?”

She cracked her eyes open. “They bug the conference rooms?”

“Not that I know of.”

She closed her eyes again. “Fine.” She let a few minutes of silence pass. “What would you do if I said something else?”

“I’m not sure.” She opened her eyes to find Barton looking at her. “Do I need to be?”

“No.”

They stopped for gas and food. She wasn’t hungry, but food, like sleep, was best gotten whenever possible. The restroom was locked, which gave her a chance to test her makeshift lockpicks; her time wandering around the base looking for Coulson had been very fruitful. When she came back out, Barton was nowhere in sight. She knew he had at least one pistol on him, but his bow was locked in the trunk. She could hotwire the car, or steal another one, before he could stop her. He'd have a hard time taking her down without his bow.

She leaned against the bumper and waited for him to come back out.

They were past Grand Forks, heading west, when she asked, “Why didn’t you kill me in Klaipeda?”

A mile passed, then another. She didn't repeat the question; she knew he'd heard it. She waited. She could be as patient as a sniper.

Finally: “I can’t say.”

She studied his face. “Not allowed? Or won’t?”

“Neither.”

She gave up that attempt. She’d find out eventually, no matter how cryptic he wanted to be. People leaked information constantly, and what came out of their mouths was only part of it.

They stopped for what she needed, and split her list to save time. He let her go off on her own. How long was her leash? Had he actually thought she would be stuck at the shopping center where he’d dropped her? She batted her eyes and smiled sweetly, and got a ride to where she really wanted to go.

When she made it back to the shopping center with a tight, worn black dress, cheap and impractical shoes, a box of condoms, and some miscellaneous junk, Barton was already waiting. He raised an eyebrow when she climbed out of the car of the man who’d given her a ride, but didn’t comment, just handed her a bag.

At the next gas station she changed into the black dress, and used the harsh soap and industrial-strength paper towels to start roughening up her hands and face. She wanted to look like someone who spent a lot of her time outside, not someone who spent a lot of her time worming secrets out of foolish people. She applied the fine sandpaper Barton had bought to the shoes and the purse, dulling their new, cheap tackiness into old, worn tackiness. She applied the makeup badly, carefully peacocking the colors instead of making them look natural. She wanted to look like a woman who was unattractive and trying to hide it rather that a woman who was attractive and trying to hide it. Then she did her hair. She took it out of its braid and rolled the window down, helping the tousling process with her hands. She rolled the window back up. “How do I look?”

Barton looked away from the road long enough to really survey her, from the shoes up to her hair, instead of just glancing— though she was pretty sure he could see a lot with a glance. “Like a cheap hooker.”

“Perfect.”

They kept driving cross-country, past many small lakes. She emptied the box of matches and hid the small phone S.H.I.E.L.D. had given her inside. Then she fastened the box to the bottom of her purse with some chewing gum. Anyone who saw into her purse wouldn’t think twice about a box of matches, but it wouldn’t come to the top by accident. She dumped the condoms into her purse, and then the junk. Then she settled back against the corner of the seat and the door, and closed her eyes most of the way. Since she had the chance, she wanted to rest.

She also wanted to watch Clint Barton.

He only took his eyes off the road to check the rearview mirror, which he did frequently. She knew they weren’t being followed, because she’d been checking herself. He certainly didn’t glance away from the road to look at her, whether because he was very professional, or because he could tell she was watching him.

Eventually she fell into a light sleep. She woke up just as they slipped across the border on what was not, technically, a road. “I need you to drop me outside of Regina. I’ll walk in.”

“Fine.”

They found the highway again. After about two hours, Barton turned down a narrow, deserted road and pulled off to the side. “This okay?”

She looked around. She didn’t know where they were, but she could find out easily enough. “Fine.”

He offered her a little piece of black plastic. She took it out of his palm with two fingers; it was an ear piece.

“There’s a switch on the bottom,” he said. “If you put it in right, it should be invisible to anyone looking at you, but if you kind of touch the back of your earlobe it’ll depress, letting you talk.” He opened his other hand, showing her another ear piece. “They’re already set on the same frequency.” He slid the thing into his ear.

She watched how he manipulated it, and then did the same. “This fits very well.”

“They’re custom-made.”

She looked up at him from under her eyelids.

“They scanned your head, didn’t they? They got a picture of your ear at the same time.”

She didn’t say anything.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. can be creepy like that. You get used to it. It’s usually benign. Mostly. Sometimes.”

She got the little switch to depress. This close to Barton, she couldn’t be sure it was working, but at least there wasn’t feedback.

She tested that. “You’re heading into Regina? How long do you expect it to take?”

“Give it twenty-four hours, to find the guy and start watching him. You?”

Twenty-four hours might be enough to find a group of weapons smugglers somewhere outside the city, but it might not be. “I’ll start with that.” Then she considered him. “You’re not…”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Is surveillance up your alley?”

“I’ll be fine.”

If he wasn’t, it wasn’t her problem. She got out and started to walk. She lit one of the cigarettes she’d had Barton buy and took a few drags, then held it close to her dress so she’d smell like smoke. When she was far enough away from the car, she touched the back of her ear twice, and the earpiece clicked. Immediately she heard an answering click. She raised her hand in reply, and headed down the road.

*

Barton tried not to watch Romanova in the rear-view mirror as he drove on into the city. Worrying was useless. He’d cut her loose, and that was that.

This mission was convenient for S.H.I.E.L.D. They got to test Romanova and her loyalties, in a far more realistic environment than micro-managed courier missions. They got to test _his_ loyalties, because if she went rogue, he’d be obligated to kill her. If for any reason he didn’t, a second time, he’d be done at S.H.I.E.L.D.

He hoped she didn’t go rogue. He didn’t want to kill her, and he didn’t want to think about why, either. If he started making judgment calls about who “deserved” death and who didn’t, well, he’d be done as an assassin.

Putting him on the mission was the sort of justice calculus that had Fury stamped all over it. It was efficient, he had to give it that. In addition to testing both their loyalties, it made him babysit the headache he’d brought to S.H.I.E.L.D. Someone who wasn’t him might have micromanaged Romanova longer, sticking around in case she’d been playing them all, but if her switch hadn’t been for real, then another agent hovering wouldn’t make it real. She was useless if they couldn’t trust her to work on her own. But if they _could_ trust her, she could be incredibly useful. Her dig at the end had hit home-- information extraction was her specialty, not his. He'd have a hard time pulling off this mission on his own.

There were compensations to _his_ specialty, though, like not having to walk miles in cheap heels. He sure wasn't gonna question her calls, but he wondered about that. Well, they were her blisters, not his. He wondered about the condoms, too, dumped in her bag. S.H.I.E.L.D. had a policy about that— Coulson had sat him down and made him read it, when he’d started doing missions more complex than “find someone and kill them.” Officially, no one was obligated to put out for the sake of a mission. Anyone could stop a mission on those grounds without recrimination. Some people followed that line, some crossed it, but it was supposed to be their own call. He’d once seen a handler, who’d been angry with one of his agents for not “following through,” being given a scathing reprimand from Fury’s own right-hand man. He was pretty sure Coulson would have made sure Romanova had known about the policy— they’d both heard her conditions for coming in— but he wasn’t sure if she’d follow it.

She disappeared from the rear view mirror, and he turned his attention back where it belonged: he had an arms buyer to find.

*

The smugglers had used Regina before, so she assumed they knew the city, and had hidden themselves accordingly. She bought a map and spent some time in a cheap Internet café, deciding where _she_ would have holed up if she were not as smart as she actually was. Proximity to major roads, distance from police stations, population density of specific neighborhoods— all these things pointed to a handful of potential locations, and she found them in the second one she checked.

It was immediately obvious that her hooker disguise wasn’t going to her anywhere. The mercenaries were holed up in a deserted apartment building, and they'd posted sentries on the roof and the ground floor-- she couldn’t simply stroll in and pretend to be lost. She'd left the rest of her clothes in Barton's car, but she could at least ditch her impractical shoes.

She watched them as she waited for night. They were sticking to an apartment at the rear of the building. It looked like one room was piled high with cartons, and another held a bunch of men playing cards. The blinds in the third room were closed completely, unlike in the rest of the building where they were half-open-- maybe there were some others sleeping in there?

She could take them easily, on her own. She didn't need Barton. Coulson had only said to shut them down. If she killed them all, she wouldn't be able to find out where the weapons were coming from, which might get her points with S.H.I.E.L.D. But if she kept one or two of them alive, she'd have enough time to get some answers.

She needed more information first. She snuck inside the building, and found a spot on the second floor where she could hear what was going on in the apartment below. The men weren't saying anything important as they played. The conversation was relaxed, and she didn't think they were playing for money. It seemed like Barton had called it correctly— they knew each other well.

One man went upstairs to relieve the sentry, who came down and took his place at the table. “All quiet. Couple of vagrants, but they didn’t get too close. Any ETA?”

“We heard from them an hour ago,” said the man who seemed to be in charge. She’d dubbed him French Tenor. He apparently didn’t mind questions from his subordinates. “They’re not behind schedule, but they’ll be checking everything out first. You know how paranoid they are. And Jacques and Draper are inbound.”

_They_?

Her earpiece beeped. “Eyes on the buyer,” Barton said softly. She clicked twice to acknowledge.

She needed a look at the cartons to make sure she hadn't stumbled on some _other_ group of paranoid smugglers. She was right above the bedroom holding the cartons, and she hadn't heard any noise coming from it, so she didn't think they had a guard inside. It was the sort of thing most people would consider pointless, with the group playing cards right outside. Most people had also never met her.

She opened the window and lowered herself out until she was balancing on the narrow frame of the window below; then she used the friction of her palms against the glass to pull the top window closed as far as she could. She dropped silently to the pavement, and looked closely at the window. She could force it open the same way she'd used to get into the building, by prying the weatherstripping out with a knife. That gave her just enough room to maneuver the frame out of the track. Then she had to climb in through the top part of the window, silently, with the top pane in her hands. When she was safely on the carpet, she replaced the glass, to prevent a draft that they might notice.

She crouched out of sight of the door and pried open a carton. It was full of small pistols, a design that she didn't recognize. She'd seen a lot of guns in her life, and these were completely unfamiliar. She wrapped her hand in her dress and took one out for a closer look. She pressed the release, expecting a magazine, but a power pack slid out instead. _That's... new_. As far back as she could reliably remember, she'd heard rumors that someone had finally developed a working energy gun, but she'd never seen one before... and she regularly wiped the floor with some of the world's most elite bodyguard cadres, carrying the most advanced weapons their bosses or commander could provide. _I can see why S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't want these getting out._ Had they come from S.H.I.E.L.D.? In the dim light, she couldn't see any markings.

To be thorough, she pried open another carton as she kept thinking. It was full of-- syringes. _What?_ She opened the next one down: tubing, empty IV packs, electrodes, and other medical equipment. The next held something far too familiar: restraints designed to be bolted to a hospital bed.

_There's no way this is benign_.

The last crate in the stack held bottles of various liquids. She memorized their alphanumeric identifiers to look up later. Her hand hesitated over the lid of one of the bottles-- she might recognize the smell-- but she put it back with the others. There was no reason to assume the chemicals were for brainwashing, and her memories of the Red Room's medical bay were the most unreliable of all. For which she was very grateful.

She put the cartons back the way she'd found them, stealing a pistol from one of the bottom cartons. She tucked it into one of her holsters and listened to the men. They still weren't saying anything useful. She pried open the window again and left the way she'd come, but just as she got the pane back into place, a breath of wind made the door sway. _Shit_.

She hauled herself up to the top of the window, and then to the ledge of the second-story window. She pulled out the frame and made it through the hole as light spilled onto the pavement below: someone had opened the bedroom door. She wedged the pane back into place, and flattened herself against the inside wall. The window below opened. She crouched by the floor vent just in time to hear faint voices. They were too indistinct to hear, but she heard chairs scraping against the wooden floor: some variant on “search the building,” then. _Shit SHIT._

A door creaked below, probably someone waking the ones sleeping in the other room. They were walking, not running, so they weren't sure there really was an intruder. She knew a good place to hide, if she could only get to it before they did.

She headed for the nearest stairwell, which was dark. Hearing footsteps approaching as she reached the first floor, she continued down the next flight. There was probably a closet under the stairs, but that would be one of the first places she’d look if she were searching. Instead she stood on the handrails and jumped up. She braced one foot against each wall, then worked her feet up until her back was parallel to the ceiling, holding herself in place by tension alone, clinging to the ceiling like a... well. The point was that people never really looked up.

Her muscles burned and trembled as she waited; she was out of practice. Before the pain became a serious nuisance, two men passed under her, moving quietly, and continued into the dark corridor of the basement. She dropped silently down, and listened to the footsteps climbing to higher floors above her. The best way to search the building would be to leave a sentry at both stairwells of every floor, but they didn’t have the manpower for that. So they were trying to clear it floor by floor. That should give her plenty of room to maneuver.

As she'd hoped, the doorway to the first floor was unguarded now. Across the hall was the apartment where she'd noticed the sentry while scoping the place during the day. The door was ajar. She crept across the hall and peered inside. Where was the sentry?

_Oh_. There, crouching by the window in the far wall. He wasn’t facing the door, but if he turned his head forty-five degrees to the left, it would be solidly in his peripheral vision. She palmed a throwing knife and pushed the door open inch by inch, hoping the darkness was significantly hampering his peripheral vision. If she had to kill him, it wouldn't take the others too long to discover his body. Killing them all was no longer an option if she wanted to know why they had that equipment and who they were giving it to, and if she wanted to kill _most_ of them, she needed some time to plan.

But she made it inside without attracting his attention. Just as agonizingly slowly, she eased the door back into position; then she silently wriggled backwards until the wall hid her from view. She was in a narrow, windowless kitchen right by the door. Her first instinct was to hide under the sink, but she ignored that. Everyone felt safer hiding in small spaces near the ground, which was why everyone also knew to _look_ there. Instead she noiselessly climbed onto the counter and then hoisted herself over the upper level of cabinets, crawling into the narrow space below the ceiling. She’d kicked up some dust; she pinched her nose until the urge to sneeze passed. She hoped the sentry didn’t have a ticklish nose.

She lay still and listened to the sounds of the search. How long would it take them to clear all the floors, at their current rate? Before she could work that out, the door opened with a bang— the sentry jumped, and another mercenary strode in. “What’s going on?” the sentry demanded. “I heard the commotion but didn’t want to leave my post. And no one's picking up.”

“Austin thought there was someone moving outside, and they might have slipped into one of the other apartments on the ground floor. Seen anyone at the window?”

“No. Nothing all night.”

“We’ve cleared this end. We need you for the search. Rolf’s going to watch the approaches from the roof; Pointer managed to jury-rig the infrared goggles for him.” He pulled a second flashlight out of his pocket and offered it to the sentry. “Come on. We’re gonna go all the way to the top and work our way down. See if we can catch him in the middle.”

“ _If_ he existed in the first place,” the sentry muttered, “and _if_ he’s still here.”

Then they were gone. She tapped her earpiece, hoping that the thing was sensitive enough, that Barton could talk… that he was even awake. “Is the buyer moving?” she muttered, in as low a tone as she could manage.

“No.” The answer came immediately, as if he were standing beside her. She hadn’t caught him off guard. “He's been sitting around all day.” Pause. “Where are you?”

Wherever he was, he could speak more freely than she could. That made sense; snipers worked at a distance. She gave him the address of the complex. “They’re not smuggling just weapons,” she said, and described what she had found.

“Why would anyone need to smuggle basic medical supplies?”

“I don’t know— but you don’t need restraints to give someone their ten-year booster.”

“All right. I’ll get on it. Do you have a plan for getting out?”

“When I’m ready to get out, I’ll make one,” she whispered, and released the tab.

It was going to take the mercenaries a long time to search the whole building and come back to the first floor. She could hole up in the dark and stay very still... even after seventeen years, she always felt that slight temptation. It was the same little whisper that made her instinctively look down for a hiding place first. As she always did, she stilled the small prickle of fear, and climbed down from the cabinets. She still needed more information.

The hallway was deserted. She padded quietly down the musty carpet to the apartment the men were using as base. She listened, carefully, until she heard the slow breathing of a rear guard inside. If he had any sense, he'd be watching the door, not the windows.

She retreated to the doorway of the next apartment and took out one of her knives. She tossed it up and forward, then ducked out of sight as it embedded itself in the ceiling with an audible _thock_. The sentry hurried into the hall. She ducked out of cover and darted silently to the next door while he was still heading down the hall. Sloppy— he should have called someone else to check out the noise.

The living room was bare except for a couple of boxes, but she wasn’t going to be able to stay there. She hesitated in the doorway of the second bedroom just long enough to make sure all the lumps were blankets, not sleeping people. Then she opened the top duffel bag in the pile against the wall. Crumpled clothes— and a passport. She could search all the bags and memorize the names on the passports, but then she’d have to find an Internet connection to do anything with them. Time to take advantage of being on a _team_.

She’d left her bag behind, but kept her S.H.I.E.L.D. phone. With one hand, she searched the bags; with the other, she texted Barton the names and countries. If the passports were fake, they were good fakes, but that didn’t mean much. She’d been traveling on very good fake passports her entire adult life. Or, they could be fake but still have valid stamps.

“What is this?” he said in her ear.

She took a risk, because it sounded like the sentry was still searching the adjacent apartment. “Passports of the mercenaries.”

“I’ll call it in. Buyer’s not moving, by the way.” He paused. “At what point should I arrange an extraction if you’re not out?”

“Don’t worry about me. Unless you need me to save your ass.”

A noise came over the line that could have been a snort, and then no more noise. This “team” thing could have been worse— Barton wasn’t breathing over her shoulder, and he wasn’t micro-managing. She appreciated that.

She heard the sentry come back, and stayed silent until she knew he wasn’t going to search this apartment. She hadn’t found anything else of interest— no folders labeled, “OUR PLANS.” If she could come up with a plausible reason for being in the building, she could get something out of them, but they were already on edge from her carelessness earlier. They weren’t likely to believe any story she could come up with.

She could still just kill them all, but she wanted to know what was going on. She wanted to know why they needed those medical supplies. She was too large and too heavy to stow away in one of the crates, but if she could get into position, she might be able to sneak into the truck when it arrived.

It was difficult, to pull the weatherstripping out and get the window open without making any noise at all. This time she didn’t have a convenient poker game to give her some cover. She nearly dropped the pane, and stood frozen to the spot, shaking with adrenaline, for an unacceptably long moment. Then she pulled herself together and climbed out the window. Up one floor and over two windows was the one she’d originally exited from. She hauled herself up, pressed her ear to the glass, and listened. There was no noise at this end of the building. She had just made it inside when headlights lit up the parking lot.

Anyone on this side of the building would have been able to see the light, and after a minute, she heard hurried footsteps headed to the first floor. She could hear some of their conversation: “… showing up early without warning us?”

“Probably scared. They must have pushed hard to get here so soon from the border. Good thing Jacques and Draper were almost here anyway.”

“Fucking cowards. They coulda let us know, except then they would have had to admit they’re a terrified bunch of girls.”

“Anyone else find Austin’s spook?”

“No. We searched as high as the fourth floor. Probably he imagined it.”

“You never know. Damned muties. Could have flown away. Could be invisible.”

“Whatever, man. Let’s go. Austin wants everyone standing guard while they check the cargo.” Pause. “You have the drive?”

“Yeah, yeah. Damned paranoid spooks with their ‘separated encryption.’”

“They’re paranoid cowards, all right, but the security's good.” The rest of their conversation was lost as they walked away.

She crouched at the window and watched. There was a moving truck and a semi in the parking lot, plus a black SUV and another grey one farther back. By the closer SUV was a group of people she thought were new. They were watching the mercenaries pile cartons near the semi. A man came out of the building and waved; the mercenaries made a loose semi-circle around the back of the moving truck, weapons drawn. The tallest woman in the group by the SUV came forward and handed the man a key. He opened the back of the truck. Three of the mercenaries came forward, covered by their comrades, and started moving...

Bodies. They were taking children off the small truck and carrying them to the larger one. The kids were limp, either unconscious or dead.

The same woman handed the man a phone. He looked from it to the kids as each one was carried to the larger truck. Some sort of inventory, then?

She tapped her earpiece. “The buyers are here,” she said. “Plural. They’re paying with trafficked people. Kids. I think the mercs are anti-mutants. Has your guy moved?”

“Hasn’t stirred. I’m on my way.”

“There’s too many of them for me to be sure the kids wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire if I took out the mercenaries,” she said. “But I can still try.” If she waited until all the children were in the semi, she’d have a clearer field, but then they’d get away with the kids. She could _steal_ the truck, but as she watched, six mercenaries climbed into the back. Even from the window, she could see fear and reluctance in their body language. If she climbed in after them, then it would be her, six armed enemies, and civilians, in a small enclosed space. Any of those were odds she was willing to risk, but it wasn’t her call.

Barton hadn’t responded yet. Her respect for him rose, that he wasn't making a decision out of instinctive recourse to sentiment. He knew how to make tough calls. “No,” he said finally. “It’s too risky, especially if the kids are mutants.”

She hadn’t even thought of that. The thought of fighting while a terrified, out-of-control mutant child raged didn’t frighten her, but it didn’t sound great, either. “They loaded about half of the cartons with the other group and put the rest in the truck with the kids,” she told him. “They’re probably taking them off for testing.”

If she and Barton— if S.H.I.E.L.D.— couldn’t catch up with them, maybe they’d be better off dead in the crossfire. But could she really say that when she'd fought so damn hard to stay alive, under circumstances that were similar if not worse?

“Yeah.” Even over the comm, she could tell that he was upset about that. “But we need more intel. Get out of there.”

“I’m going to watch the loading and see what else I can find out.”

“Be careful.”

She rolled her eyes. There was a pause, where Barton was off the line, and then he came back.

“I’ve called it into S.H.I.E.L.D. They’re gonna give us some tracking resources. I’m on my way over.”

She didn’t want him blundering into her set-up, but she grudgingly admitted that of anyone S.H.I.E.L.D. could field, Barton was one of the least likely to blunder. “Don’t get too close.”

Barton went off the line. She continued to watch. Two of the mercenaries hauled an unconscious adult to the semi. They moved another adult, bringing the total number of people to about a dozen. The man who seemed to be in charge of the mercenaries nodded once, pulled something out of the phone— a flash drive?— and handed the phone back to the woman.

More newcomers climbed out of the SUV, and started loading the boxes into the now-empty moving truck. Natalia counted them carefully. The mercenaries had called this other group cowards, but unless there were more of them somewhere else, they’d guarded their prisoners with half the numbers the mercenaries were using.

When the last box was loaded, more mercenaries climbed into the back of the semi, and the rest moved warily towards the far SUV. The new group backed towards their vehicles, too. Was there going to be a last-minute double-cross, or a firefight sparked by someone's paranoia? In that case the mercenaries in the semi might judge the spooks the bigger threat-- she crouched, ready to steal the truck and run if a fight broke out.

But the tall woman climbed behind the wheel of the smaller truck, and her group headed out of the parking lot, towards the highway. The semi and the other SUV just sat there. Giving the other group a lead?

She needed a better angle to watch the semi pull out. The roof would be good-- but when she looked out a side window, there was a familiar-looking dark lump near the trunk of the nearest tree. She opened the window and crawled out onto the branch. His quiver was over his shoulder, but he hadn’t nocked an arrow. Would the two of them together be enough to take out the mercenaries and still save the kids? “If we split up, we can track them both,” she suggested.

“You gonna steal a car?”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

He shook his head. “No. We don’t split up.”

She hadn’t expected him to go for it, but she was disappointed anyway.

“We stay with the kids,” he continued. “If we get a chance to get them out, it’ll take both of us. We’ll get S.H.I.E.L.D. to track the other truck.” They watched as the semi finally rolled into motion. “The truck’s not from around here. Looks like it came from out east. When did it show up?”

“Same time as the other. The mercs brought it in, with the second SUV. How do you know it came from out east?”

“The color of the dust on the mudflaps.”

She could barely even _see_ the mudflaps.

Barton gestured away from the building. “Let’s go before we lose them.”

They reached his car and made it back to the apartment building, headlights off, just in time to see the little convoy head for the highway. Barton followed them onto the eastbound ramp, hanging back. Early as it was, the highway was nearly deserted, and Barton had to stay far back to avoid spooking the SUV. They rode in silence. She went over what she’d seen and tried to glean further details. “They weren’t scientists,” she said.

Barton glanced over at her, as if waiting for her to continue.

“They’re taking them to someone else, but whoever it is, they don’t have equipment of their own.” A rogue scientist, debarred from government funding or unable to cook the books enough to finance mutant “experimentation”— that would fit with the ideological ties holding the group together. “They called the other groups spooks. They had some sort of drive from them, I think. They called it ‘separated encryption.’ And the woman left the mercs with a flash drive.”

“Separated encryption— S.H.I.E.L.D.’s used that. There’s another flash drive that goes with the one you saw, somewhere. Maybe on one of the other men.”

“What about the buyer you had eyes on?”

“Might have been just a mistake. Or a deliberate red herring. Hard to tell. S.H.I.E.L.D.'ll stick some other people on him, but these guys are the priority now.”

She nodded once. “How far are we going to follow them?”

“As far as we have to.”

She watched the semi for a few minutes. “Do you need me?”

“I think I can keep an eye on them.”

She wanted answers, but she knew the value of resting when she could. She shoved her seat back, turned the heat up, and dozed.

*

He hadn’t been on a real spy mission for months. He hadn’t expected this to turn into one, either, but if he was going to be babysitting Romanova, he should probably get used to the change in operations. He was good at the waiting, and the sneaking. But the pretense, the mind games and slipping on someone else’s skin… that, he preferred to leave to the professionals in that field. Like Romanova.

He didn’t think for a second that she was sleeping, but it was good that she rested while she could. He would never, ever admit to anyone how relieved he’d been to hear her click come back over the line. Six hours on a rooftop was a long time to sit wondering if Fury had been right about her and he’d been wrong. But she hadn’t made a run for it, and she’d had the chance. If she was just sticking around as part of a plot to sell S.H.I.E.L.D. out, it had to be a pretty elaborate one.

Well— he wasn’t hunting her across Saskatchewan, and that was that. He focused on the mission. There were too many ends to follow. Besides the mercs and the spooks, there was whoever had given the mutants to the spooks, and whoever the mercs were taking them to. The arms buyer wasn’t out of the picture, either. First they had to recover the kids. Then they could hunt the others. Taking down one group might alert the other that something was wrong, but he’d faced worse odds, and he knew Romanova had, too. Working with her meant he was out of his comfort zone, but he was starting to see how their strengths could complement each other. And wasn’t that a strange thing to be thinking about someone he’d been sent to kill.

Might still be sent to kill, if she went rogue. Not might-- would. He’d been the only one to ever pin her down. He hoped he wouldn't have to kill her. He preferred to kill at a distance, and that distance had collapsed the minute she'd lowered her gun in Klaipeda. He’d never been able to figure out if that preference made him more, or less, of a sociopath.

Hours passed. The truck was a steady dot in the darkness ahead, just visible at the edge of his vision. He was willing to bet that they didn’t know he was there, since he’d never met anyone who could see like him. But when the day brought more traffic, it was going to be harder to keep track of the truck; he’d have to get closer and be more alert. He yawned. Rural Saskatchewan was short on 24-hour drive-through coffee places. “Hey.”

“Yeah?” She say up and stiffened. “You lost them.”

“No. They’re still up ahead.”

Romanova was silent as she stared hard into the night. “I think I see taillights,” she said finally, sounding not-quite-suspicious.

“You do. Can you drive?”

“Of course I can _drive_.” Her tone would have been appropriate if he’d asked if she could read.

He suppressed the tug at the corner of his mouth. “I mean can you drive _now_.”

“Oh. Sure.”

They switched places. “I’m going to have to get closer,” she said as she pulled back onto the road.

He pushed the seat back, tilted it backwards, put his boots up on the dash, and closed his eyes. “We’ll switch back at dawn.”

“Okay.”

He started counting his breaths, and was asleep before ten.

*

A change in speed and direction disturbed him. He opened his eyes and saw them stopped outside of a building. _What_ \-- he recognized a drive-through, and his panic subsided. Romanova was taking a couple of bags through the window. “Where—“

She rolled up the window. “They blew a tire. Stopped about half a mile up the road.”

He sat up, and checked the time. He’d been sleeping for about two hours. Then— “How’d you pay for that?”

She held out a credit card. Bemused, he took it; it was his S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued credit card. But his wallet was exactly where he'd left it. “You picked my pocket?”

“I couldn’t find anybody else’s to pick.” She pulled around to the darkest corner of the parking lot. From there, he could see the truck down the highway, but they couldn’t easily seen.

He considered several possible responses, and finally just reached for the bag, which held coffee and hamburgers. They kept their eyes on the truck as they ate. Three men crouched by the side of the road, messing with the wheel; the SUV had pulled off directly behind the truck, conveniently blocking the back door from anyone trying to escape or from any nosy policemen.

“I can barely see them,” she admitted after a few minutes. “I’m gonna get closer.”

He looked her up and down. She was still in her hooker's garb. She rummaged in her bag, checked her weapons, and opened the door.

“Earpiece still—“

“Yes.” She slid out of the seat, and closed the door— quietly. He checked: she’d left the keys in the ignition. She leaned against the car, slipped her heels on, shouldered her bag, and started for the highway.

He slid into the driver’s seat, got his bow and quiver, and put an arrow on the string, just in case. He didn’t have to check his gun to know it was unfastened but the safety was on. He watched Romanova walk down the shoulder of the highway, but there was something—

She’d changed her gait. She was limping now, the walk of a woman who’d spent too long in uncomfortable shoes. That made sense, if she’d been wearing them since North Dakota, but she _hadn’t_ been walking like that on the way from the apartment building back to the car, and she'd had her shoes in her bag, not on her feet. He’d never really thought about all the things that went into different roles. He knew how to _lie_ , sure, but not how to put on someone else like a jacket you zipped up when you were cold. Her file hadn’t gotten across how eerie it was to watch that happen. Just from the way she walked, he thought she’d changed her expression, too, and probably her voice. She'd sounded a bit Saskatchewan... ian... when she’d called him over the comm earlier.

He wondered, not for the first time, what the psychologists and psychiatrists had made of her and her head. Fury must’ve been satisfied to send her out, and that was good enough for Clint.

Mostly.

But he hadn’t gotten to see that file himself. When you could change who you were in the space of a breath, did it make it harder to separate out who you really were from who you’d been told you were? He couldn’t figure out if he was jealous or not.

He pulled out the Canadian atlas from under the passenger seat, and, keeping an eye on Romanova’s painful limp towards the truck, found their location. The route so far wasn’t informative, just a straight shot, but he looked at what might lie ahead anyway. Did they have food and water in the back of that truck? They might be willing to let the prisoners sit in their own shit, but the mercenaries would insist on better hygiene, and anyway they’d be smelling it all the same. So either they’d be stopping periodically, or their destination was close.

He could tell exactly when they saw Romanova, because the three men by the side of the road tensed, and there was sudden, aborted movement inside the SUV. He was sure she’d seen it too, but she continued her defeated, slump-shouldered walk. It was a good act; he was pretty sure it would have fooled him. She hailed the men, who gave her a dark look and then pointedly ignored her, turning back to a tire he didn’t think they were paying all that much attention to. She came closer and forced them to acknowledge her. They had a conversation, the men tense and reluctant, Romanova bargaining. It was uncomfortable, watching her offer sex in return for information— or as they thought, a ride. It wasn’t because he thought she’d go through with it, or because he felt he had to look after her, but she was pretending to offer something she'd said she didn't want to do any more, and where did you draw the line?

And who was he to be objecting, who’d first killed at seventeen and had never— openly— looked back, except his skin was crawling just thinking about being in Romanova’s shoes.

The conversation became more heated. He laid his bow against the steering wheel. Finally one of the men shoved Romanova back hard— she stumbled and fell against the truck— and pointed up the road. She scurried away, her walk changing again as she curled into herself like someone who anticipates a blow, and— _oh,_ _hell_. Clint took a deep breath through his nose and forced his hands to unclench. This was a lot different from watching someone to find the right time to kill them. It should have been easier. Would’ve, for a normal person.

“Take the backroads and circle around,” she said in his ear once she was about two hundred feet from the truck. “I’ll meet you on the south side.”

Ten minutes later, he saw her by the side of a farm road, holding her shoes and running barefoot. He pulled up, and she slid into the passenger seat. “We need to find a computer.” She opened her hand.

He felt himself gape at the flash drive she was holding. “How did you get that? You never touched any of them. I _watched_.”

Her smile only touched the right side of her face. It was slow, smug, and the most real expression he’d seen on her since the shock and doubt of Klaipeda. “Even you don’t always see what you think you see.”

There was nothing much he could say to that. He pointed them towards the highway. “Should be an adapter cable in the glove compartment,” he said. “Plug it in to your phone.”

Romanova did that. “It’s transferring.” Then— “Shit!” She yanked the drive out, shoved the phone in the glove compartment, and slammed the lid just before the flash of the camera went off. She put a finger to her lips in warning, and opened the glove compartment again, using her bag to block the rest of the car from the camera’s view. She took a knife from somewhere and stabbed the phone. It sparked, and the screen died.

“First aid kit?” she mouthed. He reached under the seat and handed it to her. She put several layers of medical tape over the camera before taking the phone out. Then she used an even smaller knife to open up the case, and physically disconnected the speaker and the microphone from the rest of the phone. Finally she spoke: “They put some sort of virus on the drive. It probably broadcast the location of the phone before it died.”

He had to agree with her _shit_. “Could go to the spooks or the mercs,” he said. “Or it could sit on some server waiting for someone to notice the drive’s been stolen.” If it was the first one, they needed to get somewhere else, fast. And they needed better hardware than a phone. Or they could play bait to lure some of the mercs out, but they’d probably only send the SUV, not the truck. The mercs couldn’t easily go to ground and hide, not with the people they were hauling, so they had to keep going. If he and Romanova dropped their trail to find the hardware they needed to get the contents of the drive to S.H.I.E.L.D., they might not be able to pick it up again, especially if the mercs realized the drive was stolen. But if they just stayed on the trail of the mercs without doing anything about the drive, there was the chance they could both be killed, and then S.H.I.E.L.D. would have no leads. And whatever was on it had to be important to be worth the effort of rigging the virus.

The nearest S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost was too far away to be of physical use, but he was pretty sure that whoever these guys were, they’d never met a processing infrastructure like S.H.I.E.L.D.’s. If the two of them could just get the data to S.H.I.E.L.D., S.H.I.E.L.D. could crack it quickly and hopefully give them a better idea besides “chase mercs and their hostages across the country.”

He came to a decision. “You up for some burglary?”

“Sure.”

“Then let’s go to Manitoba.”

*

They reached the University of Manitoba at dawn. A helpful campus directory showed them where to find the electrical and computer engineering department. On the principle that she’d been climbing in and out of buildings while he’d been sitting on a roof, he had Romanova stand guard while he broke in. In the few minutes he was inside, Romanova altered her hooker outfit to make her look like a student on her way back from a party. It was a little creepy. Not the outfit, the quick change.

He’d broken in out of sight of the CCTV cameras, so they made it off campus before the alarm was raised, and took the stolen gear to a cheap hotel on the outskirts of the city. He called in to Coulson, who connected them with one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s techs, and also dispatched a courier to pick up the drive in case something went wrong.

Romanova opened up the laptops and physically removed the wireless cards. He disabled the mike and webcam on each. When they booted the laptop and plugged in the drive, the screen spewed lines of code, and the webcam light went on beside the empty socket. “The mercenaries couldn’t even manage to search the building properly,” Romanova said. “This is definitely the spooks.”

“You think they’d tell the mercs that the drive had been lost? Or set them up to take the fall, now that they have what they want?”

Romanova shrugged. “Depends what they get out of the deal. If they’ve been looking for a way to end it, they could let us take out the mercenaries for them and then come after us. If they want the deal to continue, they’ll send a warning.”

“I don’t like that S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t know anything about the spooks.”

He relayed her description of the woman in charge to Coulson, and asked him to search for any ex-CIA or NSA agents matching it, on a hunch. “Done,” Coulson said. “Be careful, Agent Barton.”

Clint glanced at Romanova and nodded, then remembered Coulson couldn’t see him. “Yes, sir.”

Romanova was swearing in Russian. He disconnected with Coulson and looked over her shoulder. “Want help?”

“I want whoever made this thing to—“ She muttered something that sounded anatomically improbable even though he didn’t understand a word. “Damn it, I’m not a programmer.”

“Let me try.”

He took over following the irritatingly perky tech's instructions. Romanova went to have a look around, then came back and locked herself in the bathroom. When she came out five minutes later, with wet hair and in normal clothes, Clint was resisting the urge to “reboot” the laptop with his bow. He didn't like that it was taking so long. They’d gotten far enough away from where the phone had gone off that they didn’t have to worry about either group coming after them, but they were losing their chance of catching up with that truck. But decrypting the flash drive was the best chance they had at getting an advantage over the kidnappers, and they needed every advantage they could get. He could take down a numerically superior force just fine, and so could Romanova, but throwing civilians and potential hostages with unpredictable powers into the mix complicated things.

His mind went in circles like that while the tech walked him through a series of unsuccessful procedures. Romanova was making him a little nervous, watching so closely like that, but he wasn’t going to let on. “This’ll be a while. Apparently. Might as well get some rest,” he said instead. “See anything unusual when you were out?”

“No.” She dimmed the room’s light, and closed her eyes.

He desperately wished that S.H.I.E.L.D. had someone more competent, closer. This wasn’t his line of work. He knew that having Romanova along widened their options, and didn’t narrow them, but he was having to play catch-up with her methods. He—

“Agent Barton,” Coulson said in his ear. “Don’t speak, just listen. Your S.H.I.E.L.D. credit card was pinged two hours ago.”

_The fast food place_. If the spooks had told the mercs about the stolen flash drive, they would have put two and two together and started looking for the hooker. He winced, and hoped the mercs hadn't hurt the restaurant workers to get information out of them. Then he thought about how Romanova had been the one to use the card there-- had, in fact, stolen it from his pocket while he was sleeping. That was disconcerting in its own right, he shouldn't have slept through that. And if he’d been in her shoes and trying to sell them out, using a credit card at a restaurant she knew their pursuers would check would have been a good way to do it. He didn’t know actually know what she’d said to the mercenaries when she’d been pretending to proposition them. Could she have worked out some sort of deal with them just in those few minutes?

Minutes— she’d been hiding for hours in the building that they were occupying. She said she’d been hiding, anyway.

What could a group like this give her to make it worth screwing over S.H.I.E.L.D, who she had to know wouldn’t give her another chance? And he didn’t think she was all that fond of people who trafficked children, or experimented on them.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, wishing he had a partner whose loyalty he could trust. More immediately important, he’d used that card again— to get the hotel room. “We gotta go.”

Coulson made a resigned noise in his ear as Romanova sat up. Had Coulson really expected Clint to just leave her? He heard a van door slam outside, and then booted footsteps. “Shit, too late,” he said for Coulson’s benefit, grabbed his bow, and nocked an arrow. He glanced over at Romanova, who’d flattened herself next to the door. Was she on his side, or was she going to shoot him the first chance she got?

The lock clicked and the door flew open, revealing five armed men. They tried to push forward, but Romanova blocked their entrance. Muffled thuds— cries of pain, though not from her— but no shots. The newcomers were trying to keep it quiet. Okay, he could do quiet. He put an arrow through the back of a guy who was trying to circle around Romanova, then ducked as something fell into the room. It started pouring smoke. His eyes started to water— _I can’t see_ — he pushed back the panic, smothered the smoke grenade with a pillow, and threw it all back outside.

He saw the shot he’d been waiting for, two people framed in the doorway together, and sent an arrow through the first into the second one. The arrow pinned them together in a grotesque sandwich as they stumbled backwards into the parking lot. Outside, a man screamed.

So much for silence. Romanova shot the last man in the head. “Talk to me, agent,” Coulson said.

He made it to the door in time to see a white van peel out of the parking lot. Whoever had been left had decided they weren’t worth the effort. “Five,” Clint said. “Local muscle, I think. All neutralized, more that didn't attack got a way.”

Romanova was searching the bodies. “Local,” she confirmed.

“Too bad. Otherwise we could have just sat here and waited for them all to come at us.”

“Negative, Agent.” Coulson’s voice was dry. Clint suppressed a smirk. “The courier is on its way. The good news is that S.H.I.E.L.D. found the truck. It’s still heading east. You should be able to catch up to it without too many speeding tickets.”

“They have to catch me to give me one, sir.”

“I’m aware.” Coulson’s voice was even drier. Clint didn’t bother trying not to smile this time. “We’re tracing whoever pulled your credit card data. I’ll let you know when we have something.” He paused. “Clint— _watch_ _your back_.”

“Understood.” The channel went silent. Clint picked up the laptop and pocketed the drive, then slung his bow over his shoulder.

“We have two targets to chase,” Romanova said. “If we go after the mercenaries, this other group is going to keep putting contracts out on us. We could split up—“

He hesitated. That could make a good excuse to get him out of potentially dangerous proximity to her— or it could give her a better opportunity to take him by surprise. He shook his head. “No. S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to see how well you play with others.”

She looked down at the bodies littering the hotel room.

“Off to a good start,” he said.

She didn’t smirk, but it looked like it took effort. She grabbed her bag. “Let’s go.”

He left his now-useless credit card on the table and followed her out the door. If Romanova was working with one or both of the mercs and spooks, had that all been a ploy to deflect suspicion from her? Hiring five guys to walk into a death trap was an expensive sacrifice. Or had she been supposed to let him get killed and herself captured? He had no idea what game she was playing. He looked around the parking lot for an ambush—

Ahead of him, Romanova reached the car—

He saw scratches around the keyhole.

“DOWN!” he shouted, diving for her, but it was too late-- He saw her drop, a bare second before the explosion. It was small, as car bombs went, but the force of it still propelled him into the nearest car. He staggered to his feet, looked around, and raced forward.

He breathed easier when Romanova rolled over. Her face was covered with blood, and she looked dazed. “They would have had someone around watching for that,” she said.

He offered her his hand and pulled her to her feet, holding on for a second to make sure she was steady. “You good to go?”

“Fine.” She brushed herself off and wiped some of the blood away, smearing it on the back of her hand. “We need a new ride.”

He looked around. He didn't see an ambush, and he couldn't see where someone would be watching from. They headed out of the parking lot as doors started opening all along the motel. “Agent Barton,” Coulson said in his ear. “Do you copy. We just picked up an explosion.”

“I copy. We’re fine. Need a cleanup on the hotel room, though.”

“It’s on its way. First responders are moving in.”

They broke through the hedge into the next parking lot over. “We’re away.” He glanced back to make sure Romanova was still behind him, still on her feet, and not trying to kill him. “Can you send me the tracking data for the truck?”

A map of Ontario appeared with a bright line marking the truck’s route. It was time-stamped half an hour ago; S.H.I.E.L.D. must be using satellite footage. “The farther east they get, the more options they have,” he said, mostly for Romanova’s benefit. And they still didn’t have a plan for taking them out without hurting the prisoners.

“The courier is on his way,” Coulson said.

Clint did some rapid calculations in his head. “S.H.I.E.L.D’s network is distributed. Whoever we meet, they’re just going to turn around and head back to Thunder Bay?”

“Yes.”

“Save them the trouble. We’re going there.”

He stole them a car that was old enough to not have GPS. They cleared the city, and he stepped on the gas. That was one thing he liked about working for S.H.I.E.L.D: he could get out of any speeding ticket. He liked to go _fast_. Coulson wasn't particularly fond of him having access to that perk, though.

Romanova stared out the window. He calculated when they'd each last slept, keeping track of the shape they were in. _Huh_. He was thinking of her, possibly the world's best spy, like a green agent, wasn't he. Well, it sort of made sense. She might be the world’s best spy but she was new to S.H.I.E.L.D., and they’d sent her out as his responsibility. Unless and until she went rogue or tried to kill him, he’d look after her. Possibly even if she tried to kill him. He was hazy on that point. He wasn't stupid and he didn't have a savior complex, but... whatever Romanova had had to say, it had disconcerted even Coulson. Coulson was a fundamentally decent man, with more scruples than a good chunk of the other agents put together, but he was also rock-steady and almost impossible to throw off balance. So... how much slack did you give someone for a really fucked-up development?

_Lean a little to the right, Clint, you can look in the rear mirror._

He didn’t know if she’d been in on that attack back there, but if she’d been a few feet closer to the car, she'd probably be dead. “You mostly done quick hits,” he asked, “or deep cover stuff?”

“Both.” In his peripheral vision, he saw her turn towards him. “They didn’t give you my file?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D.’s file on you was two pages, mostly a list of unsolved assassinations they thought you were associated with.”

“Oh.” She smirked.

There was something weird, even for him, about sitting in a car having a conversation with the person you’d been sent to kill, about the fact that you’d been sent to kill them.

“Why didn’t you take the shot in Klaipeda?”

This again? “I told you. I can’t tell you.”

She was silent.

“But as long as we’re playing Twenty Questions, why’d you beat that man?”

“Maybe I didn’t want to watch him beat his kid,” she muttered.

“Well, maybe that was why.”

“Why what?”

“Maybe I wanted to know why you did what you did.”

“You disobeyed direct orders and recruited an enemy assassin because you were _curious_?”

He shrugged.

“So what now? You know my answer, are you going to kill me?”

“You gonna give me reason to?”

She didn’t respond, so neither did he. But he decided to keep pressing, because he was still running on an adrenaline high from the hotel and because she wasn’t the only one who could play interrogator. “You looked like you were thinking of something else, during that fight.”

She gave him a sharp look, but didn’t say anything.

“Do you do that often? Have flashbacks when you’re fighting?”

“Are you concerned about my abilities, Agent Barton?”

Her voice was soft, and not threatening at all. _Danger, DANGER, Will Robinson_. He gave her the honest answer, even though that was dangerous too: “I’m trying to figure you out.” When she didn’t say anything, he continued: “S.H.I.E.L.D. told me you were a cold-blooded killer—“

“And you think they were wrong?” Her amusement was evident; the contempt lurked below the surface.

He snorted softly. “No.” He could recognize his own kind. “But it wasn’t the whole story.”

“The answer to your question is ‘no,’” she said finally. “I rarely have flashbacks when I’m fighting. If I did, I’d probably be dead.”

“Good to know.”

“Would you have shot me, if I hadn’t been?”

“I don’t know.” He’d known as soon as she’d started beating that man that the situation had gotten complicated, but he wasn’t going to give her a categorical list of all the situations where he would and wouldn’t shoot her.

“You don’t seem very decisive.”

“Are you concerned about my abilities?”

He glanced over to see her smirking, just a little. “Not at all,” she said politely.

They let the subject drop. “What’s the truck doing?” he asked a few minutes later.

“Still heading east.”

“Have they passed 71 yet?”

“No.”

He didn’t think they were going to swing south on that highway— it looked like they were in it for a long haul, heading east. “We need a contingency plan in case S.H.I.E.L.D. can’t get anything off of that drive.”

“The weapons were our original priority.”

“We’re sticking with the kids.” He would defend that decision to S.H.I.E.L.D. if he had to. The weapons had gone with another group, but they were still following the group that had originally pinged S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar. The spooks were the ones who knew where the weapons had come from, and where the prisoners were going. And the other group of mercenaries seemed keen on finding them, anyway, so it wasn’t likely that they’d be hard to find. All he and Romanova had to do was play bait for a little while.

“What do you think's on the drives?” he asked after a while.

“They could have data about… the cargo. If they’re destined for experimentation, then it would save the researchers a lot of time to know things like their age, blood type, and parentage ahead of time. What if the spooks stole the information from hospital records?”

“That makes sense.”

“You need good data about someone to run a truly effective experiment on them.” Her voice was precise and clipped. When he looked at her, she was staring straight ahead, eyes narrowed. He didn't press the point.

“Or the mercenaries could be just the middlemen,” she continued finally. “The drives could contain something the spooks want to get to whoever is receiving the cargo.”

“They’re not cargo.” After a minute, he glanced over to see her looking at him. “Hostages. Prisoners. Mutants. Whatever. They’re not cargo.”

After a minute, she nodded once.

They rode in silence. There wasn't much traffic. They were still a couple hundred miles behind the truck, but the mercs would probably be driving cautiously, avoiding unwelcome attention. Also, it was a lot harder to speed in a semi than in a little sedan, he knew from experience. Coulson still didn’t like to talk about that mission.

He could’ve used some coffee, but there was nowhere to stop. He felt kind of gritty, too, and wished he’d grabbed a shower. He rubbed the stubble along his jawline, and winced. At least they’d brought the duffel bag into the motel room with them, and it hadn’t been blown up along with all the equipment in the car. He had a shaving kit in the bag, if he could only find time to use it. Well— life went on.

He muffled a yawn and turned the radio on, low, for some stimulation.

*

She woke up when the car stopped. They were parked outside a long, low building in thick woods. “Where are we?”

“Thunder Bay.”

She got out and made a show of stretching so she could look around. About two hundred meters away, through the trees, she could see a huge expanse of water— Lake Superior. There were platforms and cameras. The building itself was situated on top of a shallow rise. It would be easy for a small number of people to defend against a superior force.

She caught up to Barton at the door. The building could have passed as a ranger’s building to someone who stumbled across it, but there were cameras under the eaves, and the wires powering them were protected. Behind the flimsy wooden front door was an antechamber with another door, a mud mat, two chairs, and a low table with pamphlets on Ontario tourist attractions. She snorted. Barton lifted the tree identification poster away from the wall, revealing a very modern metal interface. He shielded it with his body and entered a code. She turned politely away, and noticed that there were no other reflective surfaces in the room on which an interested observer could catch the combination.

She listened: a nine-digit code, a beep, and a click. She turned back around. A hidden panel had swung open, revealing a handprint scanner, from which Barton was just lifting his palm. He replaced the panel, and from the sound of the _thunk_ , it was substantial. The keypad was the only thing visible on the front of the interface. Anyone who didn't know the code would need heavy cutting equipment just to get at anything that could be hacked.

Barton opened the door. The alcove behind it continued the rustic disguise, but through the alcove was a heavy doorway, opening onto something more modern. As they passed through, she estimated that the doorway was about six inches from front to back. The door slid shut behind them with barely a whisper, but its speed made a breeze that ruffled her hair. She was impressed.

Two people were waiting for them beyond the doorway, a tall muscular man and a tall, slender woman. Barton stepped forward. “Carter.”

“Barton,” the other woman acknowledged, but she was staring at Natalia. “This is Agent Hewitt. And you are?”

“Natalia Romanova,” Barton said before Natalia could reply. “As I’m sure Coulson briefed you. Romanova, Agent Sharon Carter.”

“She’s not wandering around my base armed,” Carter said. “I don’t care if the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s command structure has lost the ability to think with the heads on the tops of its necks.”

Despite herself, Natalia smiled briefly. Carter seemed young to be in charge of the outpost, only a few years older than Natalia herself, but Hewitt’s body language indicated that he deferred to her. The long, thin scar curving up Carter’s neck and cheek indicated that she’d seen action. “I’ll wait in the car,” Natalia said. Barton only had to hand over the flash drive, anyway.

“Like hell you will.”

These people and their insistence that disarming her would make a difference. She could have jumped any of the three of them before they could stop her— especially Hewitt, who was staring at her breasts— grabbed their weapons, and used them as a living shield. Four different scenarios played out in the time that she blinked.

“This is a waste of time,” Barton said.

“I’ve seen the way you drive, Barton, thirty seconds isn’t going to make any difference at all.”

Barton shrugged, turned to her, and held out his hand. She unhooked both holsters, handed over her guns, and undid all her sheaths. She’d acquired a few more knives than S.H.I.E.L.D. had officially issued her, but the gun was what caught his eye “You took this off the mercs?”

Oh, right. That. His surprise probably wasn’t doing her any favors with Carter. “Yeah, before we found out about the kids.”

“No, it’s good. R&D might be able to tell us where it came from.” Barton stepped back. “Carter?”

Hewitt’s face fell. He’d wanted to search her himself, the leering goon. Carter stepped forward and patted Natalia down, quickly but thoroughly. Then Carter spun her around to face the wall. Natalia spread her legs without being asked, and Carter finished the patdown. Her face was slightly flushed when she was done-- from bending over?-- but her touch had been professional.

She stepped back, looking mollified. “That’s for us? I’ll take it downstairs.”

“I’d rather get your tech’s first impression,” Barton said.

“Right. Follow me. Hewitt, get their stuff.”

Hewitt disappeared into another room. Natalia and Barton followed Carter to the lift. There were buttons for four floors below the current one. Carter watched Natalia watch the panel. “You shouldn’t even be here,” she muttered.

“Would you like me to close my eyes?”

Barton made a sound that could have been a huff of amusement, or could have been the cold dry air tickling his nose. The cold, dry— the building was even on its own air system. She was _definitely_ impressed.

They got off on the third floor below ground level. Carter led the way to a laboratory, and knocked perfunctorily before entering. A woman sitting at the lab bench sat up quickly, the imprint of a circuit board on her face. “Agent Carter,” she said. “I’m so--”

Carter frowned. “Why are you even _up?_ Your shift ended hours ago.”

“Waiting for data to come in from base--” she glanced past Carter and saw them. “Hello.”

“This is Agent Barton… and Natalia Romanova,” Carter said. “They’re chasing the mercenaries.”

The tech offered her hand to Barton, and then to Natalia. “Dana Washington,” she said. “You have something for me?”

“Yeah.” Barton handed her the drive and the gun.

Washington put the drive aside and pulled on gloves to look at the pistol. She picked up a magnifying glass and bent so close to the counter that her cornrows brushed the surface. Then she rummaged around until her fingers closed around a tiny screwdriver, and pried open the casing. “I’ve seen this before,” she said, handling the innards of the gun with delicate fingers.

_What?_ Had the weapons come from S.H.I.E.L.D. after all?

“Where?” Barton asked.

“Not this exact gun. But this design philosophy, this style. It’s very… look at the way the power supply interface is situated to handle the residual heat problem—“ She pushed the gun forward on the bench, and the three of them automatically bent forward for a closer look, though Natalia didn’t think any of them understood what Washington was saying. “But I’ve— was this mass-produced?”

“Several crates,” Natalia confirmed. “And chargers.”

Washinton’s eyes widened. “Chargers. Did you get any of those? I’d love to see how he accounted for the conversion problem, it's one of the largest conundrums in the fie--”

“Dana,” Carter said. “Who is ‘he’?”

Washington blinked up at them. “This is a classic Stark design.”

Stark— right. Tony Stark, American weapons designer, whose name was, for reasons she couldn’t understand, regarded as magic.

Carter frowned. “Are you sure? There’s no marking on this anywhere, and Stark stamps his name all over anything he makes.”

“Maybe he didn’t produce them, but I’m willing to bet these plans came out of Stark’s head, or someone close to him who’d studied his stuff,” Washington said. “I think it was Stark. This is pretty innovative.” She started prying open the power pack.

Carter took a hasty step back; half a second later, Barton and Natalia followed her lead. “Please be careful, we just got the scorch marks off of the ceiling.”

Washington looked indignant. “That was one--”

“Let us know as soon as you get anything off the drive,” Barton said, as the conversation seemed about to devolve. Had he dealt with techs and scientists often?

Washington nodded once. “Will do. Thanks for the pretty puzzle.”

“I’ll escort you out,” Carter said. “Washington, get some sleep.”

“Science,” Washington said, bent over the pistol again.

They rode the elevator back to the first level. “Hewitt’s getting your new gear,” Carter said. “It’ll just be a minute.”

Barton gestured up the hallway. “I’m gonna…” He waved at the blood that had dried on his face from the hotel. Natalia touched her own face, and realized it was stiff and sticky. She hadn't even noticed the stinging.

“Do you need a first aid kit?”

“No, a bathroom’s fine.”

“Down the hall.”

“Thanks.” Barton picked up the duffel bag, which he’d been hauling around on their little tour, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Carter refused to leave her alone, so they waited, awkwardly, outside the bathroom. Carter stared at her; Natalia let her, and tried to sketch out the layout of the outpost based on what she’d seen. There hadn’t been any other vehicles outside, so there had to be a garage and living quarters somewhere below them. Add in room for storage, and labs— three shifts, probably, but not fully staffed, or Washington’s replacement would have shown up when her shift ended. Carter, as commander, apparently got the luxury of taking the day shift.

Natalia had estimated the staffing for the outpost and was trying to decide where the garage probably was when Barton came out again. He’d washed the blood off; he’d also changed clothes, and was imperfectly dry. “Did you just take a--” Carter began.

As Natalia slid past him to take her own turn at the sink, she saw what Carter had missed: the signs of a razor, eliminating two days' worth of stubble. She was disgusted-- he’d delayed them for that?— and then curious— Barton was an enigma, but he wasn’t stupid; why was shaving worth the delay to him?

Barton shrugged. “You’ve seen my driving.” She closed the door behind her and cut off the rest of the conversation.

Ninety seconds and she was done. “-- two rifles, a sled, and a box fan in Canberra,” Barton was saying as she came out. Carter snorted, and pushed off from the wall she'd been leaning against. Barton fell into step beside Carter. Natalia walked on his other side, to spare Carter the difficulty of having to walk forward and glare to the side at the same time.

The garage was on the same floor. It held five cars, two trucks, and two heavily armored, exotic-looking amphibious things. Hewitt was waiting by one of the cars. He handed Barton a small package and a set of car keys.

“I’ll let you know when we have anything for you,” Carter promised. Then she turned to Natalia, and hesitated. What came out took Natalia by surprise. “You killed a friend of mine. At Chiclayo. He was just a scientist. Why?”

Chiclayo? Natalia didn’t even remember that mission, just the texture and smell of the clothes she’d worn to blend in. One thing she did know— Chiclayo had been when she was sixteen, and Carter wasn’t much older than her, not old enough to have been in S.H.I.E.L.D. when it happened. A family friend, then? Had that driven her to join? Or maybe the scientist hadn’t been with S.H.I.E.L.D. There was a lot missing, in that gap. There were too many gaps. And she sure as hell wasn't going to tell Carter about them.

“He was in the way,” Natalia said.

She didn’t miss Barton’s sudden, subtle tension, mirroring Carter’s much more obvious tension, but the other woman didn’t move. “I hope you die horribly, and very soon,” she said calmly, and stepped back to let them get in the car. Natalia thought Carter was going to have an apoplectic fit when Barton handed over the keys. Hewitt hit the release for the door; she started the car, and drove up and out of the garage.

Barton waited until they were back on the gravel path before making the noise she’d come to associate with amusement from him. “What?” she demanded.

“You make me feel good about my people skills.”

She ignored that. She wasn't too concerned about Barton's _feelings_. He propped his phone up where she could see it, tilted his seat back, and closed his eyes.

Four hours of steady driving brought them deep into rural Ontario, and closing fast with the truck. They came to a gas station. She hadn't eaten since the last time she'd been driving, in Manitoba. Might as well stop— the area was barely populated, and the next opportunity could be hours away. She pulled into the station. Barton was still asleep, his seat far back and his feet up on the dashboard. She reached for the pocket where he kept his wallet—

He grabbed her wrist, and his eyes opened. His grip was hard enough to bruise, and then relaxed to just very secure. _Get out, get OUT_ \-- she fought down the urge to break free, and kept her voice calm. “I just want cash.”

If he were smart, he would have already thought of the possibility that she’d used his S.H.I.E.L.D. card in Manitoba as a signal to the mercenaries, but there was nothing she could do about that. He released her wrist. “Stop picking my pocket.” He took out his wallet and handed her a couple of bills.

“What do you want?”

“Anything. And coffee.” He sat up. “Need to check in with Coulson.”

When she came back out with a couple of bags of food and two large coffees, he was hanging up the gas nozzle. “S.H.I.E.L.D.’s still trying to trace the trace on my card,” he said. “It’s bouncing all over the place. Meanwhile, the spooks haven’t turned up anywhere.”

She started driving again, and another update to the tracking data came in— the truck was heading steadily north and east. “We’re still twelve hours out from Toronto. Are they really trying to drive across the entire continent?”

“This is the fastest way to Montreal from Thunder Bay,” he said. “If they were heading for Toronto, they would have stayed by the lake. But this isn’t the most direct way from Regina to Montreal.”

“They’re staying out of the States.”

He nodded. “Makes sense. They’d have a hard time getting through Customs undetected. We can find out where they’re probably _not_ going, now.” He took out the atlas. “They’re avoiding major population centers,” he muttered as he flipped pages. “There’re only a few ways to get to the coast if they want to stick to unpopulated areas—“

“Holy fucking _shit!_ ” She slammed on the brakes, throwing them both towards the dashboard, and grabbed for her gun in case the monster that had just ambled out of the woods came any closer.

“What, they didn’t have moose in Siberia?” Barton sounded amused.

She glanced at him with irritation. “I’m not from Sib—“ She stopped, and frowned. That was true. But how did she know it? The Red Room hadn’t been in Siberia. But that wasn’t what had made that statement feel true, in her head.

“Problem?”

She looked up; all traces of mirth were gone from Barton’s expression.

“I’m not from Siberia,” she said, and accelerated as the moose ambled off the other side of the road.

But there was something there that she hadn’t figured out. Something tugging at the inside of her head— and then the jumbled pieces shifted into a clearer pattern, and she remembered being little and seeing a similar monster in a very different forest. It was just a snatch of memory, little more than an image. It felt true, but she didn’t know if it was. It was from before the Red Room; she had a few scattered memories from that time that she'd guarded carefully and refused to think about in case _They_ found them, but after twelve years of Their tender ministrations, she didn't know if any of them were true. Had the Red Room implanted this one? Why would they implant a memory of a moose? Why, if she could get real memories back, was the first one of a _moose_?

It could have been worse. It could have been a memory of something important, and then it would have mattered whether or not it was real.

The towns were far apart now. Any stretch of this road would be a good place for an ambush, but they weren’t the only ones who could take advantage of that. She glanced in the rearview mirror again. “Any sign of the spooks?”

He twisted to look over his shoulder, as he had several times in the last hour. “No.”

An hour later they caught up with the truck. The SUV was still following it. They switched places, since Barton could follow at a greater distance than she could. They needed that advantage; there was so little traffic that they’d be noticed as soon as they got close.

Speaking of which, that was going to be a problem. “Do we have a plan?”

“I wanna watch them some more,” Barton said, which translated to _no_. He touched his earpiece. “Yeah.” Pause. “Yeah.” Pause. “We’ve caught up to them.” Pause. “Yeah. Okay. Thank you, sir.” He took his hand away from his ear. “The flash drive took down the system at Thunder Bay and then got into the network. It’s taken down two mainframes and a backup server. We gotta get that other drive.”

“So, we need a plan.”

His lips twitched. “If we can get ahead of them, how do you feel about playing bait? They know what you look like, and they’re looking for you.”

“Fine.” She glanced at the road ahead. “It’s going to be hard to pass them.”

“Any side roads on the map?”

“One, but I don’t think it’s even paved.”

“Fine. Right or left?”

“Right.”

It wasn’t paved. As soon as they left the highway, Barton accelerated, and they were caught in a storm of gravel as the wheels tore up the road. “How far?” he shouted over the noise.

“About half a mile!” Jesus Christ, how could he even see through this mess? Maybe he couldn’t.

She thought her bones were going to jump out of her body and start walking. Barton accelerated even more, and they careened down the road at a speed that made her want to close her eyes. Now she understood Carter what had meant. “Who taught you to _drive_?” she demanded as he swerved to avoid a tree that had fallen across half the road.

“Carnies. Imagine doing this road while hauling an elephant trailer and fleeing from the police.”

“Why were you fleeing from the police with an elephant trailer?”

“No license. Too young.”

She really did not want to think about hauling an elephant trailer. She glanced at the speedometer, and did some quick math to work out how long it would take them to pass the truck, which was taking a smoother, straighter route on the parallel road. “We’re going to run out of east-west road before we catch them!”

“What else is there?”

“Uhhh… power line right of way?”

The road curved. He wrenched the steering wheel over hard, and the car slid briefly on two wheels before regaining its position on an even narrower strip of grass. This one was littered with downed pine limbs, and they bounced off with loud _thunks_ as Barton took the bumpy surface at 100 miles an hour. “It’s up ahead on the right,” she said, through clenched teeth.

The right of way had fewer low-hanging limbs, but it had plenty of saplings, some of them half-hidden in the tall grass. At least it was straight. She braced her feet against the sides of the foot well, and prepared to bail if they stopped suddenly. Somehow Barton steered a course around the biggest obstacles while also avoiding the power poles. “The highway’s about a mile up!” she shouted. She’d done some risky things at high-speed— playing chicken with tanks in Nicaragua came to mind— but at least then she’d been _driving_. All she could do here was hang on and trust Barton’s skill. It was disconcerting.

He accelerated some more-- _oh, God_. “What’s the stretch of 11 we just skipped look like?”

“Curves, then goes straight again.”

The right-of-way curved too, and suddenly the highway was ahead of them. Barton braked, skidded sideways onto the road, straightened out, and floored it. “You see the truck?”

She looked over her shoulder. The bend was a couple hundred feet behind them. “No--”

Barton looked over _his_ shoulder, while still doing over a hundred, and apparently concurred. “Then let’s find a spot to have a breakdown.”

“It gets curvy again right up here.”

He tucked the car under the trees. It looked like someone had tried and failed to hide it. Barton put a convincing-looking dent in the front bumper, hauled the duffel bag out of the car, and disappeared into the forest. A few crunches of boot on wood told her he’d gone up a tree. She popped the hood and bent over the inside of the car, looking concerned, even though she was facing away from the road.

The skin between her shoulder blades crawled. Some useless physiological reactions were too engrained to be entirely suppressed. She was literally trusting Barton to have her back, with his archaic weapon and his loyalty to an organization that questioned her own loyalties. It didn’t make sense for this to be a set-up to kill her when S.H.I.E.L.D. could have tried that any time in the last month, but that didn’t rule out the possibility entirely, and he could still get her killed with incompetence.

Barton’s driving had bought just enough time. It was about eighty seconds before he came over the earpiece: “Truck’s coming.” A few seconds later she heard the engine herself. “They’ve seen you.” She gave it five more seconds, then looked over her shoulder, pretending to squint and letting them get a nice long look at her face. Then she tensed, slammed the hood, and ran for the woods. They were close enough that they should have recognized her as the “hooker” from Saskatchewan, and if they hadn’t been suspicious before she’d run for it—

She heard the squeal of brakes and the slam of doors, and dove to the ground right before the bullets started flying.

“They’re--” Barton began. She looked over her shoulder as she rolled, and a jet of blue flame thirty feet high erupted from the back of the semi.

The men chasing her all turned back to look at the fire. She took one down with a head shot before they dropped to the ground. The truck rocked; men started bailing out of the cab. She shot another mercenary, and two more went down with arrows in their chests.

Shots went off in the trailer. “They’re gonna get massacred inside.” Barton sounded grim. “Forget the drive. We gotta--“

“Got it.” She scrambled over fallen tree trunks. The mercenaries found cover and started laying down a heavy thicket of fire. She had to duck for cover of her own as a shot narrowly creased her scalp.

“Keep your head down in three, two, one.” There was an explosion in front of her; the shock wave bumped the trunk she was hiding behind into her head, and she saw stars for a moment. She shook it off and swung herself up and over, shooting the groaning mercenary who moved his gun in her direction. She heard a heavy _thump!_ Behind her as Barton dropped to the ground, and then arrows were flying past her at improbable angles. One of them pinned a mercenary to one of the truck tires, and the whole trailer rocked as the air started to leak out.

She made it to the back of the truck and yanked open the door. Bullets flew over her head. Someone screamed, and more blue flames erupted. One adult mutant was grappling with two mercenaries. Most of the kids huddled in the back corner by the chemical toilet, but two of the older ones were struggling to hold a third mercenary down. She felt a weird sense of vertigo watching them fight so ferociously and so desperately. _Ten years ago that could have been me--_

_Shit, Romanova, keep it together._ There were bodies all over the place. She pulled herself up and shot one of the mercenaries. Someone grabbed her ankle— she fell backwards as a bullet flew by her ear, and as the world spun around her, saw Barton fighting for his bow with someone twice his size— Then she twisted, struck the ground shoulder-first, curled over her own legs to grab the gun of her attacker, and hit him hard in the throat, because her gun-hand was out of the line of fire. He gurgled, stiffened, and let go of her. She shot at and missed Barton’s assailant, then pulled herself back up into the trailer. The mercenary on the ground shoved one of the kids into the side of the trailer and grabbed his gun. She fired wildly, only managing to hit his arm, but at least she distracted him. When he turned to shoot back, she grabbed the other live mercenary, wrenched his neck to an unnatural angle, shoved his body in front of her as a shield, closed with the last mercenary, and dropped the body. She kicked him hard in the chest. He stumbled back and tried to shoot her. She grabbed his hand and forced it up and back, bending his wrist to make him drop the gun, but then his momentum carried them into the side of the trailer and she hit back-first. She heard the SUV start and roar past outside. _I hope Barton's got that_ \-- but she didn't have time to dwell on it. The last mercenary pulled a knife from a shoulder sheath, and stabbed at her throat. She dropped her center of balance, got under his guard, twisted his arm up, broke his wrist to make him drop the knife, and shoved them both across to the other side of the trailer. His head slammed, hard, into the metal. He fell to the floor in a heap.

She turned, panting-- and froze. The mutant man was pointing a gun at her. Slowly, she raised her hands, and looked around. All of the casualties were mercenaries except for the mutant woman and the child she’d sheltered with her body. The man holding her at gunpoint was short and stocky, with scars all over his face and hands. He was gaunt and unshaven, and in the direct sunlight coming through the hole in the roof, his skin was tinged slightly purple.

“Who are you?” he demanded. His voice was hoarse.

“My name is Natalia Romanova.” She kept her voice calm. “I’m with S.H.I.E.L.D. My partner and I have been tracking you for—“ How long had it been? “About two days, since the transfer at Regina.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D?”

“The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division,” Barton said from the ground. The mutant spun; Barton held up his hands to show they were empty, though his bow was over his shoulder. He had a nasty gash along his head and a long scrape up his arm. “We knew the mercs were trafficking in weapons. Found out about you in Saskatchewan.”

“Two days, and you couldn’t help us until now?” the man rasped. He’d backed up against the wall of the trailer so he could see both of them, but his gun was pointed at her again.

“We--”

Barton cut her off. “I’m sorry. We were afraid of a hostage situation, and your kidnappers had a significant lead on us. We caught up about an hour ago, and staged an ambush.”

“That’s why the truck stopped.”

She and Barton both nodded.

The mutant lowered the gun partway. “What does S.H.I.E.L.D. want with us?”

“They don’t experiment on unwilling civilians,” Barton said. “If you wanna go home, they’ll help you get there. If you can’t, or you don’t have one, they’ll help you out.”

“You seem awfully sure about the morals of a secret government agency.”

Barton shrugged. “I may have some experience with that myself.”

There was a beat. Then the man said, “What about the data?”

“What data?” she asked.

He looked like he’d forgotten she was there, which was _not ideal_ since he was holding her at gunpoint. “They’ve collected data on us for four months. Experimenting. We don’t know everything they did to us. It may be permanent. May have side effects.”

She locked gazes with Barton. “Was it on a flash drive?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Did--” she began.

“The SUV got away,” Barton said grimly.

“We need that information. Some of the little ones, they don’t know who they are or where they came from.”

Something unpleasant clenched in her stomach. She made herself ignore it.

“Then we’ll find it,” Barton said. “Think you could put the gun down?”

The man looked at her. “Oh. Sorry.”

“No problem at all,” she murmured, but the irony escaped him.

“How bad are your wounded?” Barton asked.

The man crouched by the fallen woman, turned her over, and felt for a pulse. His face gave away the answer. He closed her eyelids, and gently picked up the little girl. “She’s breathing,” he said, and uncovered a long gash on her chest. “The rest, I think, we’re just banged up.”

“We’ve got a med kit in the car,” Barton said. “Romanova, you search the bodies for the flash drive, I’ll stitch up who needs it.” He looked at the hole in the roof. “You do that?”

“No, it was her.” He nodded down to the girl he was cradling. “I think it’s why she’s out. Hope so, anyway.”

Natalia missed the rest of the conversation as she jumped out of the trailer and headed for the farthest-flung bodies. She had company: two of the oldest kids, maybe ten or eleven, trailed behind her. “Do you know what a flash drive looks like?” she asked. They nodded silently. “Start with the bodies by the road.”

She hung on to IDs and weapons, piling them into one of the dead mercenary’s jackets, but didn’t find the drive. She also pulled arrows out of bodies— Barton would want them back, and they were pretty distinctive to leave behind. She cleared all the bodies in the woods. The two kids were waiting by the road when she came out of trees.

“They don’t have it,” said the older kid.

“Thanks.” Belatedly, she wondered, _Should I have let them search the bodies?_ Maybe it had been cathartic for them? She wasn’t an authority on keeping kids untraumatized. She was practically an anti-authority.

“Nothing outside,” she told Barton, and started to search the bodies in the trailer. He had just finished stitching up the little fire-thrower. The other man was bandaging the head of one of the older kids.

“I’ll take her.” The kid who’d helped her search held out his arms. Barton handed over the girl, and the older boy cradled her, keeping her off the cold, hard floor of the trailer, whispering to her. Barton moved on to the last kid who was seriously wounded. This one was awake, and whimpered pathetically as Barton took out a fresh needle.

She didn’t want that sound in her ears. It had echoed in her head for long enough, for eighteen years. She searched the one body in the cab. Nothing. She lingered outside, checking the scene; sooner or later, someone was going to drive by, but for now there was no one in sight and nothing that made her wary.

Barton looked up quickly when she returned. She couldn't name his expression; it was something she didn't see often. On a less stoic person, she might have called it grief, but Barton wasn’t sentimental. Whatever it was, his face went blank, and he finished stitching up the kid. “Get the food out of the trunk.” He tossed her the keys.

She hauled over some MREs, a couple of gallons of water, the emergency blankets, and the spare guns. When she heaved the last of it into the trailer, Barton was draping a shirt over the face of the dead woman. “You want us to move her?” he asked.

The mutant shook his head. “No. But if you could…” He gestured to the other dead bodies.

Barton nodded once, picked up the nearest dead merc, and dragged him backwards out of the trailer by his armpits. She grabbed another and helped. They cleared out the trailer, throwing the bodies with the others by the side of the road.

“S.H.I.E.L.D.’s on its way,” Barton said. “We gotta leave you here to get that drive back. Anything else we can do?”

“No,” the man said. “Thank you— for saving us.”

She prodded the bundle of guns with her toe. “There’s extra clips in there if someone else bothers you.”

They headed back to the car. One of the back windows had been shattered by gunfire, but the tires and the engine block were fine. “Did you hang on to any bandages?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He shook out a wad of gauze, and held it to his head.

“I’ll drive until we catch them.”

She tried to match Barton’s normal speed at the wheel. The road bent sharply left, and descended between two banks, which explained why even he hadn't been able to take out the SUV. He inspected his arrows, refilled his quiver, and studied the map on his phone.

She took a curve that was sharper than she expected, and the car briefly rocked onto two wheels before slamming back onto the ground. “Sorry,” she said, as Barton fumbled for the bandage he’d dropped. The curve was the first of several that she took faster than was safe. She grudgingly admitted that Barton was better at it than she was. But not out loud.

“Who taught _you_ to drive?” he grumbled.

She cocked her head. “I don’t remember.” She took another curve.

It was going to be hard to catch the SUV, because they didn't have any reason to go slow now. “Do you see anything up ahead?”

“No. But there hasn’t been a turn-off, and if they’d gone into the woods, we would have seen it.”

Twilight deepened, impeding her vision. Reluctantly, she pulled over and let Barton drive. She reloaded her guns and checked her knives. “Where the hell do they think they're going?” She scrolled through the map, looking for anything that was more than a dead end into the woods. If they had a base hidden out here, even Barton’s eyes wouldn’t spot it in the gathering dark.

Minutes stretched on. Barton’s mouth was set firmly as he stared ahead. She watched the other side of the road, staring hard for any reflections. “There’s a turn!”

Barton saw it too. He hit the brakes hard and skidded around. The tiny road ahead was unpaved, and dotted with puddles. “Someone’s been by. The mud’s been splashed around.”

“There’s a river about a mile ahead. But it’s tiny.”

“It probably drains into the Hudson.”

They rounded a curve and saw the SUV where the path narrowed too much for a vehicle. Barton jammed on the brakes and killed the headlights, but no one shot at them. The SUV was empty, and from the door left ajar, the mercs had deserted it in a hurry. She and Barton bailed out of the car and ran silently down the path. Up ahead, the river gleamed in the light of the rising moon. She heard a motorboat starting. As they got closer she saw a narrow strip of sandy shore and a short dock, where the motorboat was tied up. The men were loading crates from the dock onto the boat.

With his quiet weapon, Barton managed to pick off two of the men on the outside without anyone else noticing. She— privately— was impressed with how he could simultaneously run and handle his bow, which was not small, with nothing less than perfect accuracy. She was suddenly glad she’d never bet her life against his aim.

Then someone saw one of the corpses and shouted. She and Barton burst out of the woods. There were two men in the boat and five on shore; when the men in the boat saw them, they threw off the rope and gunned the motor. She sprinted down the dock, took a flying leap, twisted in midair to avoid a gunshot, and sprawled on the deck. The fall knocked the breath out of her, but she forced her body into motion and rolled away from a kick aimed at her ribs. She was at a disadvantage: if she shot the men and they fell overboard, she might lose the flash drive. They didn’t have the same handicap. But they did need the boat to stay free of holes if they wanted to escape in it.

She ignored the shots and screams from behind her and lunged at the nearest man, tackling him down to the deck. She rolled them so he was on top, which put her at a disadvantage, but protected her from bullets if the other merc got stupid. She grabbed the man’s arm as he tried to aim at her head, forced it up, and used her other hand to punch his unprotected torso. He groaned. She wrenched the gun from his hand, and slammed his head into the side of the boat until he went limp.

The other mercenary was trying to steer the boat and shoot at her at the same time. She ducked. The shot went through the side, close to the waterline. The river was choppy, and little waves splashed against the hole. A countdown started in her head. She returned fire with better aim, shooting the mercenary in the chest. He slumped down. The boat jerked wildly towards the shore. She lunged for the wheel, caught it, and tried to turn the boat. The deck was awash by the time she got the bow pointed into the current. She crouched down, keeping the wheel steady and trying to search the nearest body with one hand while still keeping an eye on the river. The small boat was moving slowly against the current, even with the engines running wide open.

She was coming up on the dock by the time she was sure the dead man didn’t have the drive. She hooked a foot through the wheel to keep it into position and lunged across the deck for the other body. The boat veered sharply until she caught her balance; she grabbed the man’s leg and hauled him closer. The water was swirling around her ankles— how much longer was the motor going to keep running? She searched his cargo pockets, and then his hip pockets, as they came up on the dock. She reached inside the jacket.

He lunged for her head, definitely alive and wielding a knife. She had to let go of the wheel to block his strike. The boat swung wildly in the current, taking on more water as it floated broadside against the waves. The other body washed over the side, floating downstream. She punched the man in the throat, then the solar plexus. As he gasped, she wrenched the knife out of his hand and threw it overboard, buying precious seconds to grab the wheel and point the bow upstream again. He recovered and tried to choke her. She drew a knife of her own and went for his throat, but her hands were slippery and clumsy with cold and she _dropped_ it. There was no time to be appalled. She wrenched his wrist backwards as he tried to grab her own gun. The boat lumbered past the dock. She wasn’t sure she could hang on to him if she shot him. She kicked him hard in the gut, then in the head. She grabbed him by his jacket and started roughly patting him down.

She felt something like a flash drive as the motor choked and died. The boat would suck her down with it if she didn’t get clear. She yanked the plastic-wrapped drive out of his pocket and tried to dive overboard, but the man recovered and grabbed her around the waist. They tumbled into the cold water together. She had time for one hurried gulp before the current and the suction were pulling them down. She fumbled another knife loose and drove it into the nearest flesh. She fought to the surface and heard him scream, then choke. He released his hold, but the current and the suction dragged her back under. She fought back up, but the pull was too strong— her lungs were already burning from exertion, and the cold was slowing her reactions— her leg slammed into something unyielding, but before she could grab the dock the current whisked her away. She tumbled down the river, fighting and failing to get to the surface--

She jolted to a stop, suspended by the back of her shirt. A bruising grip closed around her arm, hauling her up. She gasped for air as her head broke the surface, prepared to fight-- Barton released her top and got a hand under her other arm. He was half-sprawled along a dead trunk in the river, his feet dug into the bank for purchase. She grabbed the trunk and pulled herself up. Between the two of them, they got her to shore. She collapsed on the sand in a heap. Barton rested his hand between her shoulder blades for a minute, then pulled away, apparently satisfied that she wasn't about to die.

After a moment of frantic panting she rolled onto her back. “Status?” she rasped.

“All dead. Didn’t find the drive.” Barton was crouching by her head. “Might have missed something on one of them, but I don’t think so.”

She rolled away, stuck her fingers down the back of her throat, and vomited. She brought up river water, and the bag she’d swallowed right before going under. It didn’t look like water, or any other fluid, had gotten inside. She shuddered, and retched again. “Hate that,” she muttered.

Barton looked from her, to the drive, back to her. He picked it up— vomit and all— and wiped it on his pants. “Nice,” he said. “You gonna be okay?”

“Great.” She struggled to her knees, feeling like she'd gone three rounds and lost. Her stomach ached, her throat burned, and the cool night had turned her sodden clothes icy. “Thanks for fishing me out.”

“Yeah.” He offered his hand. She let him pull her to her feet. “I’m gonna load the boxes in the car to take back to S.H.I.E.L.D. and then search the SUV. There’s some extra clothes in the duffel.”

She headed for the car without arguing. Every moment she spent in her wet clothes was a moment closer to hypothermia. She found the duffel and discovered he’d been half-right— there was a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, but no underwear. Well, they did call it going commando. She struggled into the uniform, which clung to her wet skin, and ditched her useless, soaked gun. In addition to being down a gun, she only had three knives left. Then she fished out the earpiece, also soaked, and dropped it on the seat.

Her feet squelched uncomfortably in her boots as she walked back to the beach, but she could feel sensation returning to the rest of her. By the time she transferred the crates Barton had stacked into the car, he'd finished hauling the bodies into the SUV. On a cool night like this, decomposition wouldn't really get going for a while, so if the wild animals didn't manage to break in, S.H.I.E.L.D. might still learn something from the bodies.

“Back to the truck?” she said.

“Yeah. S.H.I.E.L.D. should be there by now, maybe we can catch a ride back.”

“I need the keys for a second.”

He tossed them to her without question. She got another pistol from the trunk, slid it into her holster, and felt the familiar weight of a sidearm again. She climbed into the passenger seat and handed the keys over. Barton was dry, and hadn’t just puked up his guts: he could drive. Besides, his eyes were better.

He started the car and cranked the heat up full blast. She looked over at him gratefully, pulled off her soaked shoes and socks, and put her feet up on the dash by the vents. He tapped his earpiece. “Base, this is Hawkeye.” Pause. “Confirmed takedown of the last of the mercenaries. We recovered what we think is the second flash drive.” Pause. “Returning to the scene.” Pause. “Yes, sir.” He tapped his earpiece again to turn it off. “They say they’ve got things under control there and we can head for Thunder Bay, but we’ll go right past anyway.”

Thunder Bay was still five hours away. They were both exhausted and battered. She let herself ease down, just a little, from high alert, and leaned back against the side of the car. “You want to make sure S.H.I.E.L.D.’s treating the people right.”

He shrugged. “Might as well.”

Barton drove vaguely like a normal person this time, getting them to the truck about forty-five minutes later. There was a large helicopter in the middle of the road. The scene was cordoned off with yellow tape, but he parked at the edge and ducked under it, holding it up for her to follow.

He went to the agent who appeared to be in charge. “Mac,” Barton said in greeting. “Romanova, this is Agent Macintyre. Mac, Natalia Romanova.”

“I’ve heard of you,” Mac said, and gave her an appraising onceover. Then he did it again, his gaze lingering at the places where her suit was clinging to her damp skin.

“I’m sure you’ve assessed the situation thoroughly,” Barton said.

Mac’s blink was the only indication that he’d gotten distracted. “Yeah, medical evac for the hostages is on its way. The helicopter’ll be pretty crowded but you can ride along in the plane if you want, once it gets here.”

She looked around. They’d set up strong lights around the perimeter, and the truck was swarming with gloved S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. There was a makeshift medical station under a tarp; she watched a suited S.H.I.E.L.D. agent kneel to put himself on a level with the child he was checking over. The mutant man was nearby, watching over the injured child. He looked up, saw Natalia watching, and gave her a small nod. She returned it. One of the kids was asleep with her head on his shoulder. Natalia thought it was the kid who’d set the truck on fire.

“We’ll drive, thanks,” Barton said. “But you wanna take some of these boxes back so S.H.I.E.L.D. can start on them earlier?”

“Yeah, sure.” Macintyre looked confused “Hey, Velasquez! Grab the boxes out of Barton’s car.”

She waited until the other agents were out of earshot to say, “I thought you didn’t want to drive back.”

“I didn’t. You wanna ride back with them?”

“... no.” There was no reason for her to hurry back to Missouri. There was nothing nearly this interesting waiting for her there. It was weird, though, coming off of a job and not having immediately to think of the next one, or her escape route, or staying off the Red Room's radar. “Do you have a problem with the other agents?”

Barton waited until he’d started the car to reply. “Didn’t want to ride back with the kids.” He maneuvered past the cordon, then pulled back onto the road. “I’ll drive for a while. Med kit’s under the seat if you need it.”

She patched up a gash on her upper arm, propped her feet on the dashboard, and closed her eyes. But she was too keyed up to easily sleep, or even rest. “Is this how missions usually go for you?”

“No. Usually there’s more waiting. More sniping.”

“So this was because you were baby-sitting me.”

“Yeah.” They drove for a while. “Sometimes S.H.I.E.L.D. sends me in with a regular strike team,” he said. “That’s more like what we did today. Except the numbers are usually more even.”

He hadn't had any more trouble dealing with the “overwhelming” odds of their three fights than she had. She could appreciate that. “So, carnies?” she asked after a minute. “What was that like?”

“Private.”

She looked over, startled. She hadn't touched a nerve, but she'd made him admit the existence of nerves, which was more than she'd expected from such a phlegmatic man.

He was looking back at her. She nodded once. “Okay.”

She closed her eyes again, and the vibrations of the car lulled her mind into letting her body take what it needed. When she woke again, they were pulling into a gas station. The radio was on low, playing something twangy, and the clock read 3:17. What time zone were they in? Eastern? “You want--” she cleared her throat and tried again, her voice still rough with sleep. “--me to drive?”

“That’d be good.” Barton got out and stretched. He was flexible to a degree that surprised her. “Pump, or get food?”

She glanced at the tiny store. “Food. What do you want?”

“Don’t care.” He handed her some cash.

She grabbed things at random from the shelves, because she wasn’t hungry and Barton hadn’t specified. The sleepy cashier stared longingly at her coffee as she paid. She stepped outside and saw Barton’s head snap up as he put the pump away. “What is it?”

He watched the darkness intently for a moment. “Not sure. Let’s go.”

He handed her the keys. As she started the car, she scanned the area, too, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Barton’s eyes were sharper than hers, and it was unlikely she’d catch anything that he missed.

The drive was uneventful, the road empty, but he didn’t close his eyes. “You mind?” he asked, fingers resting on the lid of the coffee.

“I thought you wanted to sleep.”

“Not yet.”

“Fine.”

He peeled back the lid and drank the black coffee without complaint. After a while, he seemed to relax, settling back in the seat. She turned the radio off when the twang started to get to her. She didn’t need it to keep her awake, and she didn’t need the temptation to eviscerate the speakers.

“Not a fan?” he asked.

“Of country? No.”

“That wasn’t country, that was folk.”

“… okay.”

They put another fifty miles behind them. Barton’s eyes closed and his breathing evened out. The coffee was cold; the bitterness helped keep her awake. They should be coming up on--

Something exploded. The car spun and stopped hard. Her forehead slammed into the steering wheel. Her ears rung, and her body didn’t want to respond. She heard scuffling. She forced her eyes open to see black-clad people swarming the other side of the car. They grabbed Barton, hauling him bodily away. There were too many for him to fight off. He managed to lunge forward and grab her hand, but then his assailants dragged him relentlessly away. The car had ended up sideways across the road, the bulk of it between her and them. She thought she saw a large truck waiting down the road.

She forced herself to move, shooting at the attackers as she fumbled with her seatbelt. But her vision blurred, and the attackers put the two carrying Barton between her and the rest of them. Barton wasn’t struggling, but he must still be alive or they wouldn’t bother taking him. The motor coughed as she frantically turned the key. She gave up and flung herself out of the car, using it as cover to shoot at the kidnappers. They returned fire. She scrambled away from the car towards the ditch, where she could get closer and maybe shoot out their tires—

Another explosion. She tumbled through the air and slammed into the ground.

*

“Romanova.”

“Romanova, do you copy.”

“Natalia.”

She was conscious.

She was cold and everything hurt— no, not everything. Her brain automatically started to categorize things and prioritize her injuries. Someone was calling her in a tinny voice. Who? It was important. The voice sounded American, not like anyone from the Red Room. Maybe it was a trick.

In quick succession she remembered an alley in Klaipeda, a dusty base in Missouri, a stakeout in Regina, a fight in a cold river— Barton— an ambush--

“Natalia Romanova, come in,” the voice said again. She put a name to it, and found where it was coming from. Barton had left his earpiece in her hand when he'd grabbed it, and she'd instinctively held onto it in the fighting.

She fumbled with it. “Copy,” she slurred.

“What’s your status?” Coulson asked.

She pried her face out of the dirt and managed to sit up on her elbows. She immediately wished she hadn’t. Her head spun and her ribs protested. “They took Barton. He— gave me his earpiece—“

“He managed to get a call off before they got him out of the car. Where are you?”

Her vision was still blurry. By the moonlight she could see the car in the middle of the road. The front end was deformed from the force of the explosion. “We were on the road back to Thunder Bay,” she said, gathering her scattered thoughts. “We were ambushed. A group. They had a… it looked like an _ambulance_.”

“Where _are_ you?”

“Not sure,” she said after a minute. “On 11, past Greenstone.” She sat up all the way. None of her bones were broken, but she had a pounding headache. “How much of a lead do they have?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“The car won’t start.” She got her feet under her, bracing against a wave of nausea. “Not sure why they didn’t take me.”

“They probably knew they couldn’t handle both you and Barton at the same time.”

She followed that idea to its logical conclusion. It took longer than she would have liked. “They’ve been watching us.”

“It would seem that way.” She heard chatter in the background, then Coulson came back on the line. “How badly are you injured?”

“I’m fine.” She stood up, closed her eyes, and managed not to pass out. They’d already been headed away when they’d triggered the second explosion. Had they managed to booby trap the car or the road? She climbed out of the ditch, and stumbled forward.

“I’ve scrambled a team. They’re on their way to our best guess for your location. Sit tight and they’ll be there within the hour. Sooner, if you can send up flares.”

_Sit tight?_ That was not something that she did. She massaged her shoulder absently. It ached, from Barton grabbing it to haul her out of the river. “What about Agent Barton?”

“We’re trying to track the vehicle now. We’ll get him back.”

“It’s the spooks,” she muttered. It was the only explanation that made sense. The spooks had already tried to kill them once, and they had a vested interest in— She straightened. “They took the flash drive. They took the flash drive _back_.”

“We’ll retrieve it,” Coulson said.

He probably meant to be soothing, but his tone irritated her. She wasn’t used to taking missions personally and she didn’t even know why she cared, but she was angry that the spooks had stolen the flash drive she’d worked so hard to get. _I vomited my guts out for that thing._ And what were they going to do to Barton? She rubbed her shoulder again as she thought: they had a twenty minute lead, and it would be another hour before S.H.I.E.L.D. would be on the scene to analyze it. She fumbled with the earpiece, and rolled it in her hands.

“—son?” She groped in her pocket for an empty wrapper. “—terference,” she said, and crinkled the wrapper. “Damaged— breaking up—“ She ignored Coulson’s voice, and turned the earpiece off.

She staggered over to the car. The road didn’t look disturbed; she hoped that meant it wasn't booby-trapped. The keys were still in the ignition. She got the tool kit from the trunk, opened the hood, and surveyed the innards critically. She didn’t know a lot about cars, but the Red Room had made sure she’d known how to get one running, and she’d augmented that education later.

She propped a light from the kit on the edge of the hood and got to work. Between the dim light and the spinning in her head, her hands were clumsy, and her progress was slow. Eventually she’d patched and reconnected enough things that she thought it would at least start. She refilled the fluid that had leaked out, from the emergency stash in the trunk. Then she closed the hood and tried the ignition.

The engine turned over and caught. She eased forward, watching the dials. The engine temperature shot up when she broke thirty miles an hour. Her patch jobs weren’t very good; she was going to have to take it slow. But that was thirty miles an hour faster than “sitting tight.”

Her phone was buzzing: Coulson. She didn’t bother to turn it off. Even if she took out the battery, he could probably track the car. Did S.H.I.E.L.D. still have anyone at the truck site that he could send after her? Damn it, why hadn’t they sent the flash drive _with_ those agents instead of feeling like hand-carrying it would be safer? Or kept it on _her_ instead of him? But they could just as easily have grabbed her and not him—

Could they? Barton was the weaker hand-to-hand fighter. How long had the spooks been watching them? Had the mercs gotten off a warning to them? And where were the spooks going now? Staying on this road would take them to northern Minnesota. They were at least a couple of hundred miles from any other major highway. Were they counting on being able to restrain Barton that long? Against those numbers, and drugged, he probably wouldn’t have a chance.

It had definitely been an ambulance. She hadn’t imagined that. The moving truck and the weapons had probably been sent off somewhere-- that was one thing in her favor, that they apparently weren't using the energy pistols. Had they stolen the first thing they could? Ambulances were good, no one questioned them, but they were also noticeable. A Canadian ambulance driving hundreds of miles on American highways would attract attention. Either they were going to steal something else, or they were staying in Canada, or they were going to go to ground soon after they crossed into the US.

_They must have pushed hard to get here so soon from the border_ , one of the mercs had said. They’d come from the US. They would probably go back there. She held the atlas open with one hand. _If I were a paranoid group of spooks, where would I hide?_ Actually, Minnesota wouldn't be a bad location-- relatively remote, and near the border.

But she needed more definite information. And while she was wishing, she needed another quart of coolant and some new hoses, because her patch job wasn’t going to hold forever. If she passed a gas station, she could find someone to pickpocket—

There was a provincial trooper behind her. That was an unexpected stroke of luck. She obligingly wove around on the road, and ignored how easy that was with eyes that still weren't focusing right.

The sirens went on behind her. Obediently, she pulled over and waited. The car followed her, and the officer approached the window. “Ma’am, I’m going to need to see your license and insurance.”

“Sure.” Natalia got the insurance slip out of the glove compartment, lunged out of her seat, and punched the officer in the side of the head. She groaned and went for her gun, but Natalia was faster. She slammed the door into the other woman, scrambled out of the car, grabbed her, got an arm around her neck, and choked her until she went limp. The whole thing took about five seconds. Natalia checked for a pulse, then dragged the woman into the back of the car and bound her hands and feet loosely, in case she woke up before Natalia got away. She searched the officer, taking her gun, radio, cell phone, and keys. Then she grabbed the duffel bag and Barton’s bow and quiver from the car, locked it, and stole the police car.

She accelerated as if she were Barton, listening to the radio as she went. After an hour she blew through the first town in a hundred miles. She pulled off and hunted through the glove compartment until she found something with the officer’s name and ID number. Her head was still aching, but she’d replayed the kidnapping over and over until she was almost sure of what she’d seen. She activated the radio. “Dispatch, this is 205.” She mimicked the officer’s high voice and Canadian accent. “I need a trace on an ambulance. Number 347, out of Thunder Bay.”

“205, please hold.” There was a pause. “347 is heading into Nipigon. Do you need to be patched through?”

“Negative, Dispatch. Thanks.” The spooks might have disabled the ambulance's tracking, but it was still a better lead than she’d had. She pushed on.

After another hour, the car needed gas. There wasn’t any cash in the duffel bag, and all she could find in the car were coins. She did find cigarettes in the glove compartment. She hid the car a few hundred feet from the next gas station and walked to the lot. After a few minutes, a car with a likely-looking mark pulled in. The man who stepped out had a suit and a nice wristwatch— maybe an executive on his way to an early meeting.

She took a cigarette from the box and put it between her lips. “Hey,” she hailed him, putting one hand on her hips. “Got a light?”

He turned and looked her up and down. “Sure,” he said. “And I could have a lot more than that for you.” He winked. He came over to where she was standing, which was conveniently out of sight of the service station’s window, and took out a cigarette of his own. He lit hers and then his.

She took a long pull, aware that the man was watching her lips. “Think they can see us over here?” she said, with a teasing grin.

He looked over his shoulder. “N—“

She hit him over the head. He crumpled. She ground out both their cigarettes and took all his cash. After a minute, she positioned him so he wouldn't die if he started vomiting. Then she wiped her fingerprints from the wallet on his pants, and left it there. She picked up the car, drove to a gas station on the other side of town, and filled up.

She had nine text messages from Agent Coulson. She turned off her phone and took out the battery. By sunrise, she was in Thunder Bay, but she hadn't seen the ambulance. Had she been wrong? Had they turned off somewhere? She called Dispatch again: “Can I get an update on ambulance 347?”

There was a pause. “Ambulance 347 is… approaching the border.” Dispatch sounded surprised and suspicious. “Is there a situation, 205?”

“Negative, Dispatch. I’ll tell you if it becomes one.”

A new voice came on the line: “Car 205, care to explain your location?”

“Dispatch, I’m pursuing a fugitive. I’m trying not to spook him. I’m hoping to take him in without a high speed chase.”

“Do you need backup?”

“Negative, Dispatch. Too conspicuous.”

“Well, make sure you don’t “not spook him” all the way out of the country.” The voice was sarcastic, but less suspicious now. She’d bought herself a little more time.

Thirty miles down the road-- was that an ambulance ahead? She squinted into the rising sun. She needed Barton’s eyes for this, not her inferior and blurry ones. Whatever it was, there was an SUV ahead of it. She couldn’t get close enough to verify the number, and she couldn’t call Dispatch again without making them suspicious. She could call S.H.I.E.L.D., but she didn’t know how they could pick up the chase without tipping the spooks off and turning it into a hostage situation. The spooks might be suspicious of a provincial trooper’s car, but they wouldn’t suspect it was _her_ , and they’d be cautious to avoid alarming the “trooper.”

She searched the map for the right location. If she was right that their base was close to the border, she needed to take them out before they got there. They probably had reinforcements there. She could stop in Thunder Bay and ask for help, but if Carter didn’t shoot her on sight, she’d lock her up.

The best spot she could find was over the border. Without a better idea, she followed the spooks to the border crossing, and hung back. It looked like cash changed hands; the SUV and the ambulance went through without inspection. She let them get ahead. Then she pulled into the road, floored it, and burst through the gate in a rain of plastic and metal.

She ignored the commotion behind her, and roared down the road, catching up with the ambulance and the SUV quickly. They saw her coming and took off. She stayed with them, but didn’t try to get any closer. She needed them running fast. She let them lose her around a bend and took off down a side road. She had to drive like Barton in order to get ahead of them, but at least she wasn’t dodging tree stumps. There was the highway she wanted, and the overpass. She pulled across, bounced roughly down the hill to the other highway, parked across the road, bailed out, and sprinted to the top of the overpass. She really hoped they’d restrained Barton.

The spooks were trying to get away from the car they thought was behind them, and the ambulance took the curve at high speed. The driver braked hard, but not in time; they plowed into the car. She ducked as bits of metal and glass flew through the air. The ambulance shoved the car halfway off the road, and stopped. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel. The SUV hurtled around the corner a second later and slammed into the back of the ambulance, stopping under the overpass. _I hope I didn’t just get Barton killed_. No more time to worry; she tightened the quiver strap and jumped on top of the ambulance.

She didn’t know how many were alive in the SUV, but she wasn’t going to take chances on getting shot from behind. She rolled to the top of the cab and grabbed the passenger door as it opened. She slammed the door into the woman trying to get out, climbed down and over her body, and ducked into the back of the ambulance. Barton was tied up. His eyes were closed. There were three others, all stunned from the crash. She kicked a gun away from one of them and kicked him in the stomach. She pivoted out of the doorway, got an elbow into the throat of the woman, and shoved the second man into the wall of the ambulance. They’d killed all the mercs; S.H.I.E.L.D. might want some of the spooks alive. The woman was recovering— she tangled their legs and brought her hard to the ground.

She prodded Barton’s shoulder. At least she didn't see any serious, visible injuries on him. “Wake up.” She sliced through the ropes holding him down. When he didn’t respond, she slapped him lightly across the face. His eyes opened instantly; his left arm came up to shield his body. “It’s me. Can you fight?”

His confusion faded to recognition, and his gaze sharpened to something close to its usual acuity. “Yeah.” He flexed his hands to get his circulation back. “Where are we?”

“Minnesota.” She dropped the bow and quiver on his lap. The back door burst open.

She tackled the first man through the door. They bounced on the hood of the SUV, and then continued to fall. She turned them so she was on top when they slammed into the ground. Then she stabbed him in the throat. An arrow flew overhead; she rolled under the open door and lunged as the woman who'd been in charge in Regina tried to get out. They needed to keep her alive. Natalia got her in a headlock, but the other woman was fast, and kicked her in the shins. Natalia gasped, but hung on. She pinned one of the woman’s arms against the seat of the SUV. The woman pulled a gun from under the seat with her other hand, but Natalia let go of her head and grabbed her arm, forcing it up and back. The woman dropped the gun rather than let Natalia point it into the SUV. Natalia shoved her backwards into the foot well, spun, and kicked her in the head. She collapsed immediately. Natalia hoped she wasn’t dead, but she had more immediate concerns. She grabbed the unconscious woman and used her as a shield against the man leaning out the window until Natalia could bring her own gun into line. She shot him between the eyes. _Five down in the ambulance. Four down here_ —

Sudden silence. She cautiously leaned over the window in time to see the last man standing topple with an arrow in his chest.

Barton crouched at the door of the ambulance and nocked another arrow. “We better restrain the others. They’re waking up.”

“Does S.H.I.E.L.D. need them all?” There was duct tape and rope in the ambulance, so they weren't short on restraints, but she was curious how he would react to the idea of killing unconscious people.

“If not, let them deal with it.”

“Did they mention any backup?”

“No, but I wasn’t awake much.” He leaned stiffly into the ambulance, and grabbed the rope.

She watched him move. “Are you hurt?”

“Just battered.”

They bound all the live ones, took their weapons, and put them in the back of the ambulance. Natalia watched with satisfaction when Barton took the flash drive back, from the woman who’d been in charge. They piled the corpses in the SUV, again. She looked at the crumpled hood. “I don’t know if this will start.”

“We can leave them for S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“The Border Patrol will be along soon. I didn’t have a passport. Or a license.”

He looked at the two vehicles full of bodies. “Driving without a license? Scandalous.”

She was surprised into a breath of laughter.

The corner of his mouth quirked in response. “You got a phone? They threw mine out. We should call this in.”

She felt for his earpiece, which was in her pocket, but before she could hand it over, he stared up at the sky. “Helicopter!”

They ran for the woods. She saw now that he was favoring his left side, and both her ankles ached from accumulated impacts. They crouched down a few yards inside the forest. She reloaded with a fresh clip; he nocked an arrow. The helicopter came into view, marked with the logo of the U.S. Border Patrol. It circled the scene— and Barton lowered his bow.

She stared at him.

“It’s Coulson,” he said.

She bit back _Are you sure_ , but stayed where she was as he abandoned cover. How had Coulson earned what appeared to be Barton's unconditional trust? Hadn't that _ever_ gotten Barton into trouble?

She lowered her gun when Coulson jumped out of the helicopter. Barton met him, and they had a short conversation. She stepped out of the trees; Coulson looked past Barton at her, and looked relieved. Probably because she hadn't run off, killed Barton, or done any of the other terrible things that she could have.

“You’re hard on vehicles, Ms. Romanova,” he said when she came within earshot. “Is that an Ontario provincial police car?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the S.H.I.E.L.D. car?”

“With the police officer.”

He just waited silently for her to elaborate. She gave in and stopped trying to bait him. “I left it on the road about an hour or so from Nipigon. They might have had it towed by now as evidence.”

“I’ll call it in, and add it to the collection of S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicles damaged in this mission.”

“Here.” Barton held out the flash drive. “Next time they can kidnap _you_ to get it back.”

“I look forward to it.” Coulson tucked it in an inside pocket. He spoke into his earpiece. S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers jumped out of the helicopter and started securing the scene. “What happened?”

“Not much on my end,” Barton said. “I got kidnapped and took a nice long nap.”

“And you?” Coulson asked. “Besides one Ontario trooper and one wrecked patrol car, what collateral damage did you cause?”

“I took out the border crossing back there, but you probably already knew about that.”

“I did, yes.”

“Oh, and I mugged a man at a gas station in Nipigon.”

Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose.

“He’s probably awake by now.”

“We try to avoid damaging innocent bystanders in S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Coulson told her. “It’s not always possible, but we do try.”

She stared at him. This barely qualified as collateral damage. This was _benign_. “I left him alive.” She didn’t bother to sound repentant. “He thought I was coming on to him, he deserves the concussion.”

Coulson apparently didn’t want to dignify that with a response. He pointed at the helicopter. “The pilot will take you where you need to go. Medical has orders to check you both and treat you for whatever they find.”

“I’m fine--”

Coulson gave her an unimpressed look. “I could tell you were concussed over the _earpiece_.”

She gave up, because her head _really_ hurt.

“What about the prisoners?” Barton asked.

“They’re being treated for shock and dehydration. If we can get the details of the experiments off the drives, we’ll be in a better position to help them.”

Barton nodded once. They headed for the helicopter. The uniform chafed; right, she still wasn't wearing any underwear. She took an uneven breath. She must have hit her head harder than she thought; she'd done much stranger things before, and they'd never struck her as funny. Maybe it was the comedown. For once, she hadn’t made any new enemies, and no one was actively trying to kill her, that she knew of. Was that it? A release of tension, that she normally didn’t allow herself?

Barton stopped just outside the helicopter. “Hey, uh. Thanks for the rescue.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t have been thrilled if I’d waltzed in without you.”

“Coulson didn’t offer to evac you after they kidnapped me?”

She shrugged. “Offered. Ordered.”

Barton gave her a strange look. “Well. I appreciate it.”

They were whisked away to an unfamiliar base and taken— firmly— into the custody of Medical. By the time they released her, Coulson had caught up with them. With the adrenaline gone, her eyes were watering with fatigue, but she obediently stopped at the exit to the medical bay. “What now? Debriefing?”

“We’ll save that for later,” he said. He tilted his head. “You realize that I’m obligated to order a kill strike against you if I think you’ve gone rogue.”

She shrugged. “I guessed something of the sort.”

“And yet you didn’t take the time to explain before you broke contact.”

Another shrug. “S.H.I.E.L.D.’s not very _good_ at trying to kill me.” She let him digest that for a minute. “So why didn’t you? Order it?”

“If you ever go off the radar, I think you'll find a better excuse than ‘the earpiece isn’t working,’” he said drily.

She smirked. “How _did_ you find us so quickly?”

“Some of the information we recovered from the mercenaries— you recovered— mentioned that the spooks had a base near the border. We were watching the possible routes.” He watched her, and nodded once. “You did excellent work, Ms. Romanova. We'll talk again tomorrow.”

They gave her clean clothes, a shower, and a room the size of a closet. The blackout curtains made up for that inconvenience. But she didn’t fall asleep immediately, as exhausted as she was. She felt… anticipation. Where was S.H.I.E.L.D. going to send her next? Who was she going to _become_ next? It was odd, this sense of having a self. It felt dangerous. But she wanted to keep it.

She fell asleep, and did not dream.

*

“That went well,” Coulson said.

Clint rubbed his arm. “Yeah.”

“You disagree?”

He shook his head. “No…”

“You were right about the drives. We’re decrypting them now. They do contain details of the experiments.”

Clint nodded.

“One of the boxes from the mercenaries gave some indication of their destination. We’ll be following up with that soon.”

Clint nodded again.

“Romanova went back for you.”

“I noticed that.”

“Why do you think she did that?”

Clint shrugged. “It seems like everyone expects me to have some mystical line straight into her head. I really don’t.”

“Clearly, you see things in her no one else does,” Coulson said drily.

“Does?”

“Did,” Coulson admitted.

“So S.H.I.E.L.D.’s not going to take her out back and shoot her, then.”

“That was never really in question. Not after the first day.”

“Guess I’m not the only one with a soft spot for strays.” When Coulson didn’t dignify that with an answer, he prodded: “But then, we already knew that.”

“I’m glad you seem to have recovered so quickly, Barton,” Coulson said. “Does this mean I can expect your field report early?”

“I wrote it on the helicopter, sir. I could give it to you now.”

“Basic rules for field reports, Agent: if it’s written on a napkin, it doesn’t count.”

“This one’s written on paper towels, sir.”

Coulson gave him one of his many mild-but-cutting looks that he’d perfected on years of cheeky agents. But Clint was immune. “Go away, Barton. Good job.”


	4. Alabama

She was bored after the Ontario mission. They sent her out on an unsupervised courier mission, which presented no challenge at all. Even talking her way into a high-security corporate compound wasn’t interesting. The woman in charge was so easy to fool, Natalia might as well have been talking to a wall. A gullible wall.

S.H.I.E.L.D. ran more brain scans on her, and subjected her to boring interviews with a psychologist. It wasn't Dr. Rosales, who was in the field. Natalia wasn’t sure, and wasn’t told, just what a crack brain doctor did “in the field,” but her replacement was subpar. His bullshit filter was inadequately tuned, and he was overly concerned with her perceptions of morality.

“Did it bother you to kill those people?” he asked.

“No.” She waited for a reaction. The very lack of one told her enough. “S.H.I.E.L.D. brought me in to kill people.”

“Hmmm.” The psychologist made notes.

Coulson hadn’t sent her an approved sparring partner yet. She passed her time in the gym by asking unsuspecting agents to fight. None of them ever suspected that a petite, beautiful woman like her, who smiled so prettily, could do much damage— while everyone had heard by now that the Black Widow had turned, few could ID her by sight. Unfortunately, she hadn’t found anyone who would go more than one round with her, and word was starting to get around.

Eleven days later, she was summoned to another briefing. She wasn’t surprised to find Coulson and Barton there, but she was surprised at Barton’s matching black eyes. “What happened to you?”

“Bar fight.”

She quirked her eyebrows at him, unimpressed with his lying skills.

Coulson got their attention. He put a man’s picture up on the screen. “This is Robert Turner. He’s an influential American businessman, in bed with a number of politicians. He’s also running an underground militia. We need to follow his purse strings. Get as much information as you can on him. If he realizes he’s been compromised, we’ll have a hard time getting anyone back in.”

Barton frowned. “S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t usually mess with something as small as domestic militias. Someone call in a favor?”

Coulson didn’t seem to appreciate the implication that S.H.I.E.L.D. engaged in horse-trading. “We think he's coordinating across borders, as part of a plot to take over North America.”

Barton’s frown deepened. “Who the hell would try to overthrow both Mexico and the US at the same time?”

“A megalomanic,” Coulson said drily. “Turner’s one cog. We need to find out how big the machine is.”

“Oh! Can we let them have Canada, just to see what happens? ‘We’re terribly sorry, but would you mind not overthrowing our government’?”

“ _No_.”

Barton subsided.

“We’d also like Turner himself, if possible.”

“What do you want him for if you have his information?” she asked. Were they going to torture and kill him? That was well within her skill set, but maybe they didn’t trust her to do that kind of work unsupervised, yet.

“As a hostage of last resort. He may also have information he hasn’t recorded. He’s very paranoid. Barton, we need you to raid the militia headquarters, get whatever information you can, and set them back as far as you can. No deaths. We don't want to make martyrs.”

Barton nodded once.

“What about me?”

Coulson showed a fancy-looking event invitation. “Turner hosts a ball and a silent auction every year to raise money for the so-called ‘North Alabama Liberty Education Fund,’ which gives out a few scholarships each year, but mostly channels money to his militia. We’ve procured an invitation for ‘Nadia Richards.’ You’ll get into town a few days early, make a point of being seen, and attract attention as a new donor and potential collaborator. Your cover story is that your family fled Soviet Russia when you were a child. You saw what communism did to your beloved motherland, and you’re anxious to prevent that fate for the citizens of the great American republic. What?”

“I didn’t say anything.” Derisive snorts weren’t speech.

“Hit Turner’s ideological buttons, and his paranoia. He’s made a lot of noise about how the government’s coming for him and he’s not going to go down quietly. Use that.”

She frowned. “He’s in bed with politicians and he thinks the government’s coming after him?”

Coulson smiled. “Welcome to American politics.”

She shrugged.

“Your cover story will stand up to anything he can throw at it, so feel free to play the ideologue to the hilt. You just want freedom for your beloved country, which has fallen prey to communists in capitalist’s clothing, but until you can return and lead a revolution there, you’re watching out for the best interests of the United States, where you see the same tragic warning signs. Etc.”

She stared at him. “You want me to pretend to be a Russian revolutionary.”

“Yes.”

“Because that,” she said, “always works _so_ well.”

Coulson made an open-handed gesture. “Turner will buy it.”

“The current president of the United States doesn’t strike me as the communist double agent type. I would know.”

“To Robert Turner,” Coulson said, “George W. Bush is just a pawn in a far greater game involving the World Health Organization, the Earth Liberation Front, the J. M. Smucker Company’s education outreach program, and the Illuminati. Paranoia. Hit it hard, and hit it often.” 

Barton leaned back. “He sounds like one of those guys who thinks the government’s tracking us through the bar codes on stuff we buy.”

Coulson’s face didn’t change.

“Oh.”

“It’s only a small pilot program,” Coulson said. “And technically, we’re not the government. Anyway, the point is not what civil liberties violations S.H.I.E.L.D. is committing, the point is what civil liberties violations Turner thinks _anyone_ is committing. But don’t underestimate him. He’s intelligent and ruthless. He believes his own ideas, but the more outrageous rhetoric he spouts is to convince other people to support him.”

“A number of people have ‘disappeared’ near the training grounds in the last two years,” Coulson continued. “Some of them weren’t the type many people miss. Others probably had their families bought off. Barton: be careful. If they catch you they’ll try to kill you.”

Barton put on an offended face. “I wasn’t born yesterday, sir.”

“My mistake. Sometimes I get confused when you act like you’re five.”

Barton put his hand to his chest and opened his mouth in an expression of mock outrage.

She watched Coulson carefully during this exchange. She kept looking for signs that this banter was fake, and that S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t give their agents nearly as much latitude as Barton’s behavior seemed to imply. But Coulson gave no indication that he secretly resented Barton's impudence. This time, he didn’t pay Barton’s theatrics any attention at all. “So if you can trick Turner into thinking you’re naïve,” he told her, “he’ll be less likely to think of you as a potential threat.”

She nodded once. “Get in, get his books, get him, ruin his militia, get out.”

“That’s about the sum of it.”

“I’ll need clothes. I doubt S.H.I.E.L.D. stocks ball gowns.”

“You’d be surprised. We’ll get you what you need.”

“I have something suitable— several somethings suitable— in storage. If you let me go get them, it would save shopping.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. would never dream of asking you to use your personal wardrobe for a mission,” Coulson said.

Barton gave him a disbelieving look, but didn't speak. Natalia resisted rolling her eyes. Really? It had been worth a try, at least, even if she hadn't thought it likely that they would let her off her leash to visit one of her safe houses. She could get to one, if she really wanted; the nearest was a lot closer than S.H.I.E.L.D. probably suspected, or would be comfortable with. This particular place didn't have any ball gowns, though, so there’d be no point but making a point.

“We’ll send you to New York,” he continued. “You should be able to find everything you need.”

They sent with a chaperone, of course. Two, actually. It was adorable how S.H.I.E.L.D. thought another person would make a difference if she decided to go rogue. Agent Reynolds was tall, muscular, and deceptively reserved and soft-spoken. He stayed with the car, playing chauffeur, rather than make himself conspicuous in high-end women’s boutiques. He also didn’t stare at her ass, which put him in Natalia’s good books… such as they were. Agent Jerrigan didn’t insist on making unnecessary conversation, either—which was always a relief— but she did give her opinion on the dresses when Natalia asked for it. “What kind of weapons do you use? That one looks like it would be awkward with holsters.”

“That’s a good point.” Natalia slid halfway out of the deep blue gown and reattached some of the holsters she’d removed earlier. Yes, this one wasn’t going to work. She looked at her remaining options, then back in the mirror. Her roots were growing out, so she’d have to dye her hair anyway; she’d have more options if she went with something besides red. She'd found herself keeping it red, more often than not, ever since she'd escaped, because there wasn't much about her that got to be real. But she could suck it up for a week. Blonde would be good. People loved to write off blonde women. She settled on a red dress, with a blue one as backup. The rest of her wardrobe was easier to fill out. “This must make an odd expense report,” she said as they walked down the steps, laden with bags. Reynolds climbed out of the car and put the bags in the trunk for them. His small smirk was the only indication that this was anything out of the ordinary for him.

“Accounting sees stuff like this all the time,” Jerrigan said. “It’s normal. They don’t bat an eyelash.”

“Hmm.” So S.H.I.E.L.D. had enough covert agents to make bizarre undercover missions a regular thing.

“I once supervised the purchase of three llamas for a fake cottage industry,” Reynolds said from the front seat, once they were inside. “Accounting was a pain in the ass about it. They wanted a full report on the health of the llamas, even though we were going to give them to a petting zoo as soon as it was over. The report was supposed to be filled out by a veterinarian, but we didn’t have time to find one, so I got to check their teeth, their parasite density, and the condition of their genitals.”

Natalia had an unusually difficult time not smiling.

“So, trust me, this is normal in comparison,” Jerrigan finished.

“Were you there, too?”

“Yeah, I was playing the cottage industrialist.”

“Sounds like there’s never a dull moment around here.”

“Oh, there are dull moments,” Jerrigan said. “Punctuated by terror, and questioning your own sanity.” 

Natalia was used to dull. She was used to questioning her own sanity, too, and there were very few and very specific things she was terrified of. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t sound like anything she couldn’t handle.

*

They returned to Missouri. She dyed her hair, and packed what she thought of as her designer armor in the expensive-looking luggage Coulson gave her. Barton was leaving a day ahead of her, to drive down and stay out of sight at a grubby motel. She met him at the car, for a final check, and watched him load it. “You think we’re going to need explosives?”

“I like to be prepared,” he said, stashing the box in the trunk. “You got everything you need?”

“Yes. You?” She eyed the trunk of the car. “Perhaps you’d like to add a cavalry battalion?”

“Oh, hey, that’s not a bad idea. Do you know where I can get a pocket-sized one, cheap?”

She assumed that meant they were good to go.

S.H.I.E.L.D. sent her down by private plane. She rented an expensive car to match her expensive clothes, and drove to the expensive hotel where S.H.I.E.L.D. was putting her up. By cosmopolitan standards, it was lacking, but northern Alabama couldn’t be blamed for not being western Europe. It had a bed and a roof, which made it better than many of the other places she’d stayed.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had given her a gadget for detecting bugs. She swept the room with it, and then followed that with a visual inspection, because depending entirely on technology was a stupid way to get killed. The room was clean. Her reservation had been made in advance, but Turner apparently hadn’t taken the opportunity to expand his intel on her. Or maybe bugs were too subtle for his line of work.

She put on a skirt set and went down to the hotel’s restaurant to be seen having supper. Nadia Richards was cunning enough to know how an attractive figure contributed to her powers of persuasion, so she ordered a salad. Natalia used her body the same way, but she also engaged in enough high-stress, high-impact, high-chance-of-dying exercise that her biggest problem had always been getting _enough_ food. Living on rabbit food was a step down, but it was only for a week. Like the room, it was still better than the conditions of many of her other jobs. And it was better than all the time the Red Room had forced them to--

_Okay, that's not a helpful thought._

After supper she did laps in the pool; then she settled down in a lounge chair with a copy of _The Fountainhead_ , which was on Coulson’s reading list for her. She enjoyed the warm night breeze for an hour. When she returned to her room, she booby-trapped it; then she dragged some blankets onto the floor, made her bed look occupied, and settled down for light sleep.

The next morning she went to the shooting range to continue establishing Nadia's persona. It was frustrating to pretend to be a worse shot than she was, but demonstrating her true ability would have blown her cover. As she drove back, her earpiece beeped. “I’ve had eyes on Turner all morning,” Barton said. “Can’t be sure, but I think he just sent a team to your hotel room.”

_Finally_. She tucked her hair behind her ear and activated the earpiece. “Thanks for the warning. I’m headed there now.” She kept moving her mouth when she was done talking; if Turner already had eyes on her, they’d think she was singing along with the radio. 

“Make sure it’s a surveillance team and not a hit squad. I’m thinking--” A loud crash, and then silence.

“Hawkeye.” She tapped the earpiece. “Hawkeye.” Silence. “Hawkeye!”

No answer. She scanned the area for signs of an imminent attack and saw nothing. She made it back to the hotel without contact from anyone, including Hawkeye. Her room had been hastily searched by someone inexpert. In case Turner had someone spying through the window, she pretended not to notice, but she also surreptitiously checked to see what they’d gotten into.

Hawkeye still hadn’t reported in. Should she try to find him? What had that crash been? If he couldn’t call for help, how would she know if he needed it? He’d said he had eyes on Turner— if she could find Turner, then she would probably find Barton. Turner’s house was half an hour away, and his “secret” base was twenty minutes farther, in the woods, but she didn’t have any excuse to turn up at either—

“Sorry. Everything’s fine now.” Barton sounded strained and out of breath. “I need to hit the cache for a few supplies. I may not be back in time to get into position at the beginning of the ball.”

What? She’d _seen_ all the things he’d loaded into the car. “What do you need?”

“I need a different rifle. Don’t think this one is powerful enough to punch through Turner’s defenses.”

“Fine. Just keep me posted.”

She tried to decide what Nadia Richards would do next. Nadia would have gotten a massage, but Natalia didn’t like people touching her. Maintaining the pretense of relaxation was too much effort for too little payback. She decided to lounge by the pool reading _Unintended Consequences_ , which Coulson had promised was paranoid militia catnip. She was glad she didn’t actually have to focus on the content, because it was terrible, and because she was on edge. Enforced waiting was nothing new to her, but it never got any easier.

She went back to her room for a nap, storing up energy against whatever would come next. Then it was time to put on Nadia Richards’ armor: first, careful application of an entire bag’s worth of cosmetics, whose combined purpose was to make her look like she wasn’t wearing any. She knew she was very attractive even on her least attractive day, without any makeup, but appearance was a game with carefully constructed rules. How you followed them, or didn’t, was another piece of your character. She flipped on the television as her nails dried, to pick up local information she could use as small talk. Then it was underwear, weapons, dress, and shoes. Nadia Richards made a last check of Natalia Romanova’s weapons, tucked a small revolver in her clutch, and locked the door behind her.

The ball was at a country club. She gave the keys to the valet, and left _Unintended Consequences_ on the seat as a nice little detail, since the car would probably be searched. Inside, she accepted a drink, and roamed the room at what would look like random, turning heads as she went. She found the exits and the security cameras; then she started picking out which members of the crowd were muscle in rented suits. Fewer than she’d expected, but still more than any reasonable person would bring to a ball.

It wasn’t long before an older woman with improbably unsilvered blonde hair found her. “Miss Richards? I’m Mrs. Hughes.”

Nadia extended one hand, and found it clasped between two others. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Hughes. Thank you for your kind invitation.”

“My dear, it was the least we could do after your so generous donation. You must allow me to introduce you to Rob— Mr. Turner. He’s been dying for the opportunity to express his gratitude.”

Turner had grown a luxuriant and unfortunate mustache since S.H.I.E.L.D.’s last surveillance photo. He took her hand, bowed over it, and then raised it to his lips. The part of Natalia that wasn't engrossed in being Nadia was disgusted, but she’d learned, a decade ago, to keep those parts of her suppressed on the job. “Miss Richards. It is such a pleasure to meet you. Your donation blew us away. We’re so grateful that we’ll be able to fund so many scholarships next year.”

She lowered her eyelashes and looked up demurely. “It was the least I could do.”

“I must admit, I was surprised by it. Your name was unfamiliar to me. Tell me, how were we so fortunate as to come to your attention?”

_He’s definitely done a background check_. “It’s always important to educate young people about freedom. If we’d done so in my homeland, perhaps I could be there and not here today.” _I cannot believe those words came out of my mouth_. She shoved that back: _No editorial comments, Natalia_! “Not that here is bad, of course.” She let enough of Nadia’s accent slip through to mark her as “foreign.”

“I’m always saddened to hear of anywhere that has learned that lesson the hard way. Your homeland, it’s…” He played along as if he hadn’t researched her.

“Russia.” She let her gaze drop and her mouth turn down as if she were mourning a departed lover. _Oh my God. This is ridiculous._

His eyebrows went up. “ _Well_. Well.” He wasn’t a bad actor at all. Natalia was impressed.

“We came to the United States when I was a little girl— many years ago— and now she is free, but she is not really free, the capitalists they have there are little better than communists. So when I lost my parents—“

He murmured something sympathetic-sounding.

“Thank you. I was disconsolate for some time, and then I began searching for something… something to fill up my life. I asked myself, what did I care about most? And the answer was, to prevent another such tragedy like in Russia. I began looking for like minds, but most of those I found were, how do you say it?”

“Undedicated?” he suggested, with a gleam in his eye.

“Exactly! They were not fully _committed_. I could not approve of their enthusiasm. It was tempered with too many scruples, too many cautions. So when I heard someone say— derogatorily— ‘I don’t think we need to go that far, we’re not Rob Turner’— I knew I had to seek out this man.” She smiled at him, being sure to show her dimples. “And here I am.”

“Excellent!” The gleam in his eye had advanced to full-fledged mania. She’d just vindicated him in his fanaticism. That shot of smug, self-righteous pleasure always made people incautious. “Let me introduce you to some of the other trustees in the fund— my partners.”

Nadia allowed him to tuck her hand through his arm and lead her around the edges of the ballroom. How many of the men-- they were all men-- that he introduced her to were involved with the militia, and how many were just naïve enough to believe the ‘North Alabama Liberty Education Fund’ was _really_ a scholarship fund? She memorized names, faces, and personal characteristics as she gave dimpled smiles and looked up through her lashes. She let a little of Nadia’s accent bleed through, especially when repeatedly answering the question “And where are you from?”, and faked an occasional stumble over an English word, or a hilarious and charming malapropism. 

Finally Turner said, “Miss Richards, I must attend to some business before the auction, but I’ll leave you in the good hands of Mrs. Hughes. I hope we can have a long and fruitful conversation later this evening.”

“I look forward to it.” She let him inflict his facial hair on her hand again before he hurried away. Right out of the ballroom, in fact— going to check up on something in the information he had on her?

Mrs. Hughes took her around the ballroom in the other direction, introducing her to all the people Turner hadn’t considered important, like the women. Everyone was delighted to meet her. No one had anything original to say. A few of the women watched with narrowed eyes as she circulated, as if she were materially hurting their chances of securing the attentions of a nice, paranoid man to marry or fuck. She was used to attracting ire for being the most attractive woman in the room, and often used it to her advantage. She was almost always the most attractive woman in the room. She couldn’t remember a time when that had been either novel or gratifying.

She made tedious small talk and successfully convinced people she was a harmless blonde ditz. Not all of them— some, especially the ‘trustees’ Turner had introduced her to, were too suspicious to be gotten around with a few giggles. That did make her job harder, but if she'd had the capacity to have any faith in what people optimistically called humanity, their caution might have restored a little of it.

She wandered through the tables of items being auctioned, and put in a very high bid for an old dagger from the American Civil War. Doing so would help to cement her reputation as a woman with money to throw around. S.H.I.E.L.D. had given her access to a lot of money for this mission for just that reason— though her repeated attempts to pick Barton’s pocket might have had something to do with it, too. If S.H.I.E.L.D. was simultaneously trying to test her trustworthiness, they were wasting their time; she had enough money stashed around the world that she didn’t need to skim. She could buy something expensive, though, just to be obnoxious. She could describe it in the inevitable expense report as “post-mustache therapy.”

She heard footsteps behind her and smelled Turner’s cologne, but he obviously thought he was approaching quietly, so she didn’t turn. “That’s a good choice,” he said. “That was my great-grandfather’s dagger when he was with the 15 th Alabama during the Civil War. He was cut down at Little Round Top, and his body was so mangled that the dagger was how they identified him. It was sent back to my great-grandmother.”

“I’m surprised you decided to part with it. A family heirloom like that.” 

He looked like he was trying to look noble and self-sacrificing. “My pride in my great-grandfather remains, whether or not I have his dagger.” 

“That’s very good of you,” she said, stroking his ego some more. He tried to look modest. He wasn’t very good at it.

After the bids for the silent auction were in, they gathered as a group for the first time. Mrs. Hughes introduced Turner as “the man who needs no introduction,” after which he said a few vacuous words about liberty, the value of a good solid education, and the importance of teaching Young People about freedom. One of the previous year’s scholarship recipients was trotted in to be shown off, looking extremely uncomfortable. Natalia wondered if it was just because he was in a large group of a different social class, or because he’d figured out that the Fund was much less benign than it seemed.

Then there was a series of toasts, with champagne distributed by the silent and efficient caterers. They were so unobtrusive, in fact, that she’d almost forgotten to pay attention to them. She needed to correct that. Blending into the background was something she used to take in other people, not something she should fall victim to herself.

They toasted liberty, the great nation of the United States of America, the great state of Alabama, the great and modest Rob Turner, and Mrs. Hughes. Then Turner looked over at one of the men he’d introduced her to earlier, one of the ones who’d been completely taken in by her act. “To Scruggs Lewis, and the beginning of a fruitful partnership!”

They obediently toasted and drank.

Finally Turned turned to her. “And to our new friend and generous supporter, Miss Nadia Richards!”

She ducked her head with a bashful smile. After everyone drained their glasses for the last time, the caterers collected them, and the band struck up. Turner descended the low dais and offered her his arm. “Do you dance, Miss Richards?”

“Oh, yes.” She gave him another dimpled smile.

Turner was too much of a Southern gentleman to try to cop a feel in a crowded ball, but Natalia did catch him looking down her dress more than once. Nadia didn’t notice. “You dance very well,” he said. “Did you learn in Russia?”

“Oh, no. I was only a child then. My father used to dance me around the house on his feet, but I never took lessons until we escaped to the United States.” 

“Yes, I suppose the supply of ballroom dancing lessons in communist Russia wasn’t very great.”

She forced another smile. “We lived in Boston for a time, and my mother was afraid I would become too much like the Americans there. No— no, how do you say, style, always in a hurry, always about the bottom line. So she sent me to dance lessons and also to learn to play the piano.” She let her eyelids drop. “After her death, I kept up the habit out of respect to her memory.”

“I’m sorry it was a traumatic experience that produced the habit, but it’s hard not to admire such charming style.”

She looked up at him through her eyelashes. “You dance well yourself.”

He made a gesture of deprecation, then returned his hand to her waist. “Some of us believe that there’s value in keeping up the old ways.” He nodded across the crowd to someone she couldn’t see. “Mr. Trenton told me he thought he saw you at the gun range this morning. Do you shoot often?”

“I try. I know I am not as faithful as I should be.”

“I have a small range at my home, not far from here. If you’re staying in town, would you like to join me? I can arm you, if you’d like to try something besides your own weapon.”

“Thank you, I would enjoy that very much. Is tomorrow convenient for you? Or when?”

“Tomorrow morning would be perfect. If you give me your phone number, I’ll make sure you get directions and the code for the gate.”

She admired his subtlety, and recited the number for her S.H.I.E.L.D. phone. Then their dance was over. “I must circulate.” His voice had just the right level of regret to sound genuine. “May I hope to have another dance tonight?”

She smiled up at him through her eyelashes. “Maybe,” she said. “If neither of us are too popular.”

He laughed. “If not, until tomorrow, Miss Richards.”

She danced with other men, and was pleasant and charming to them, but not so charming that Turner would think she was trying to flirt with anyone she could. There was a lull in the dancing while the band took a break, and the items from the silent auction were distributed. She’d won the dagger. She took it out of its sheath and examined it, pretending to appreciate its aesthetics rather than its potential as a weapon. On both counts, it measured up.

Her earpiece beeped. “Do you have eyes on Turner?”

She stepped into the hallway and took out her phone. “Yes?” she said, pretending to answer it. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the base. Making a run. You good?”

“Fine.”

She had to stay to let Turner claim his second dance, and to keep an eye on him for Barton. She danced with a series of mediocre partners with remarkably wandering hands, then pleaded thirst and retreated to the bar to rest her abused feet. She had the same conversation about the hot, humid weather with three people in a row, but at least she didn’t have to dance with them. Natalia was getting impatient to leave. Nadia kept the same serene, demure smile plastered on her face. _Was_ Turner going to come back for another dance— oh, there he was— but—

He hurried over, trying and failing to appear at ease. “Miss Richards, I’m so sorry. Something’s come up that I must deal with immediately. I’ll have to take a raincheck on our dance.”

“Nothing too serious, I hope.” She looked concerned. 

“Oh, nothing I can’t handle.” He forced a laugh. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” she promised, and watched him exit the ballroom quickly. A few of his men slipped out after him, trying badly to be inconspicuous. She brushed her hair behind her ear and tapped her earpiece. “Barton, get the hell out of there,” she muttered, moving her lips as little as possible. “Turner just left in a hurry to go ‘deal with’ something and he took his head goons with him.”

A minute passed. “Copy.” Barton sounded strained. “Meet at your room once I shake my tail?”

“Fine.”

She danced a few more times and watched the room for any reaction to Turner’s ‘something.’ The men who looked tense and were checking their phones were probably leaders of the militia. The ball started to wind down. She found Mrs. Hughes, thanked her for a _delightful_ evening, and reclaimed her car from the valet. It had been inexpertly searched, and a bug planted in the glove compartment. _Really?_ She left it where it was; its disappearance would raise suspicion, and she could use it to her advantage.

When she returned to the hotel, she removed her gown and her makeup, then swept the room for bugs again. She pulled the second set of curtains and dimmed the lights. It would look like she was going to bed, and it would prevent anyone from seeing two silhouettes in the room.

There was a noise behind the vent— she had her gun out and leveled at the grating when it popped off and Barton’s head appeared.

She lowered the gun. “How did you _fit_ in there?”

“I’m flexible.” He proved it by twisting and lowering himself to the ground, feet first. Then he reached up and grabbed a black duffel bag from inside the shaft. Instead of his bow, he had what looked like a disassembled sniper rifle tied to his back. His right bicep was bandaged, and the three middle fingers of his left hand were taped.

“What happened to you?”

“Some of Turner’s guys got wind of me yesterday. Started following me. We had a fight. That was when I called you this morning.”

She frowned. “Can you shoot like that?”

“Not well. Not my bow.” His voice as light and even as if they were discussing the weather. It wasn't convincing. “So I went and picked this up—“ He patted the pieces of the sniper rifle on his back. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll do. Anything interesting at the ball?”

She gave him the names of the men she thought were involved with the militia. “I’m assuming you found something good?”

He unzipped his vest and took out a bundle of papers. “I didn’t have long inside Turner’s base tonight, but I found these.” He handed them over.

Her eyebrows went up as she read them. “This is… big.”

“And well-equipped,” Barton agreed as she flipped through. “I already called it in.”

They were photocopies, mostly of purchase orders, or records of under-the-table sales. Put together, they gave a good idea of the militia’s armament. She flipped back a page and frowned. “A lot of these mention ‘Lewis’ as the buyer.”

“Yeah, I didn’t understand that.”

“There was a Lewis there tonight. Turner talked about the beginning of a ‘fruitful partnership.’” She read more. “These are all recent.”

“And it’s the older ones that have Turner himself as the buyer.”

“You think Lewis is pulling the strings?”

Barton shrugged. “Could be they joined up, and now Lewis wants to use Turner’s little play group for his own ends.”

Natalia came to an item that made her roll her eyes. “Of course they’re Russian. Turner has no problem using Soviet weapons for his revolution. Someone needs to explain irony to him.”

Barton snorted. “It kinda looks like they’re ramping up to move soon.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “How soon do you think?”

He tilted his head. “They could sit on the weapons for a while. But they’d have to be pretty stupid to launch a campaign in winter, especially with the limited transport they have, and I don’t think they’ll wait another year.”

“They’re trying to take over the _entire continent_ ,” she reminded him.

“True. But stupid people try for world domination all the time. S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t think most of ‘em have enough of a chance to be worth doing anything about.”

She handed back the papers. “I’m meeting Turner at his house tomorrow to go shooting. I’ll see what I can pick up. They searched my car while I was at the ball and planted a bug. I haven’t seen any tails but they could be out there.” She frowned. “How easy are these earpieces to hack into?”

“Basically impregnable. S.H.I.E.L.D. keeps their stuff secure.” He stretched— revealing a couple more bloody bandages— and winced. “Mind if I use your bathroom to clean up a bit?”

“Uh… go ahead.”

He went into the bathroom and shut the door. She shoved the furniture out of the center of the room and began to stretch. She’d been letting her flexibility slide lately; her room in Missouri didn’t have much space, and she didn't want to give away too much about her capabilities by stretching in the gym. She was upside down, balancing on her hands and bringing one foot toward the ground, when there was a loud _CLINK_ from the bathroom and a string of filthy swearing from Barton. There was a vent in the bathroom— it was unlikely anyone would have repeated his trick, but not impossible— she tumbled silently to the ground, took the safety off, and glided to the door. She didn’t hear any noise. “Barton?”

“I’m _fine_.”

He didn’t sound fine. She opened the door. He was staring at the mirror with his face lathered, but the razor was in the sink. He turned and gave her an annoyed look. “Room’s a bit small for target practice.”

She safetied the gun and put it away. “I thought something was wrong.”

“Right, I can see how you would have been confused, since I told you I was fine.”

She frowned, and crossed her arms over her chest. This was uncharacteristic, which made it interesting. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Do you mind?”

She tilted her head. He was left-handed, but his fingers were damaged. “You can’t shave with your right hand, can you.” He never fussed about _anything_. Why was he fussing about this?

“ _It’s fine_.”

She watched him. She wanted to know more, wanted to push harder to see what limits she could find. She’d been looking for those, for her own safety, and for their information value: a limit was like an edge, and edges defined a person. Maybe she’d just been looking in the wrong places. “I can do that for you.” 

She waited to see how he would turn her down. Off-balance as he was, would he come right out and admit that he didn’t want her near his throat with a blade? Or would he just slam the door in her face? Or continue to insist, unconvincingly, that he was fine?

He hesitated. She let him squirm. “You ever used a straight razor?”

_That_ wasn't what she’d expected. Something shifted in her brain, and she remembered standing in the doorway of another bathroom, looking up, up, _up_ at a big man with a full bushy beard who was smiling at her in the mirror as he laid a similar razor out on a towel next to a brush and a small bowl. She smelled the spicy soap as he whistled—

She returned to the present and sniffed carefully. The hotel soap smelled like coconut, and Barton was not whistling. “Not on someone’s face.”

He turned all the way around to look at her face-to-face instead of in the mirror. Oh. That probably hadn’t been reassuring, had it? But he still didn’t tell her to go away. “Okay,” he said. Then: “Please.” 

She hadn't expected him to accept her offer, but she wasn't going to turn down such a rich opportunity to find out what made Barton tick. She filed away every intonation and gesture for careful review later. She slid past him without touching him, retrieved the razor from the sink, and rinsed it off. She tapped it once, gently, against the basin. The _clink_ was very soft. For her to have heard it the first time, he must have thrown, and not dropped, the razor. “Turn around,” she ordered him.

He stood obediently against the back wall. She could have him sit down on the toilet, but then she'd have to practically sit on his lap, and if he got off on this, she didn't need to know that-- didn't need to know where she fit into his fantasies. She got enough attention from the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. None of them did more than look-- no one was stupid enough to proposition her-- but they stared pretty hard. She didn't think they saw anything but what they wanted to see. She used that to her own advantage, often, but she didn't want it to be like that with Barton. Not if she had to work so closely with him.

She held the razor up to the light and then tested the edge. Very sharp. “Hold still.”

“Wasn’t planning on doing the Macarena,” he muttered.

She tugged gently on his skin to make it taut, and brought the keen edge of the razor to his face. It wasn’t difficult. She was good with blades, and Barton was _very_ good at holding still. But it was the strangest thing she’d done in a long time. She, Natalia Romanova, did not touch people. She left that to Nadia Richards, and all the rest. It wasn’t just preference; most of the time Natalia Romanova didn’t even exist around other people. Between breaking out of the Red Room and joining S.H.I.E.L.D., she’d only been Natalia around others when she was negotiating for a mission or collecting payment. Being ‘herself’ made her feel vulnerable. It made her feel she needed a self to be.

She put pressure on his head. He got the hint, and tilted it so the light hit the space under his jaw. She heard, and felt, the slight increase in his breathing as the razor glided over his carotid artery. But he didn’t move a muscle.

“Don’t worry,” she murmured. “I’m good with knives.”

He waited for her to finish that stroke before speaking. “Yeah, I was aware.”

She could see his pulse in his throat, the blood rushing through his vessels. It was so close to the surface. An infinitesimal change in pressure made the difference between removing stubble, and releasing a fountain of gushing blood. There was as much an art in _not_ cutting throats as there was in cutting them. Each had its time.

“Done.” She stepped back and let him be the one to feel for rough patches. “I’m not doing a second pass.” She put the razor down on the sink behind her.

“No, this is… good.” He grabbed a washcloth and started wiping off his face. She was watching him closely enough to see a bit of tension ease out of his forehead. “Uhhh… uh, thank you.”

“Yes.” She returned to the bedroom. She resumed her interrupted stretch, and tried to understand what had just happened.

The electronic lock _clicked_ quietly. She tumbled to the floor and rolled behind the wall, grabbing the nearest weapon— Turner’s dagger. There was silence from the bathroom. Good, he’d heard it too. The door _swished_ over carpet as it eased open— hidden from immediate view, she stood up—

They were good. The man turned hard around the corner, knife already extended. Knives— he, they, were trying to keep things quiet. She easily ducked his blow and struck towards his stomach. He blocked. She pulled back as he tried to grab her outstretched arm for leverage. Cornered between the bed and the wall was a stupid place to be— as he lunged forward again, she dropped down into a crouch. He overbalanced. She rolled forward before he could strike at her unprotected back, came up under his guard, and plunged the knife up under his ribs. Her nearest gun was five feet away—

The door swung closed. Something went _thud_ in the bathroom. Gun in hand, she moved forward just as Barton came out of the bathroom door— they both tensed, then relaxed. She looked past him. There was another assassin lying dead, this one in a pool of blood, her body half in the shower. She had a knife, too. The razor, in Barton’s right hand, was bright with blood.

Natalia listened at the closed door. No sound. Barton moved to join her, but then looked down at himself and made a face when he saw how much blood he’d gotten on his clothes. She eased the door open and waited for shots. None came. When she poked her head around the frame and looked around, she didn’t see anyone in the hall.

“Search them,” she muttered, tucked the gun in the back of her pants, and let the door close behind her.

She searched the hotel, looking and listening for anything out of place. She didn’t find anything helpful. Had someone given them the key to her room, or had they used their own equipment? She tapped her earpiece twice when she was back outside her own door, so Barton didn’t get trigger-happy, and let herself back in. He’d been busy— he’d cleaned himself up, and stripped the plastic sheeting from between the mattress and box spring, using it to wrap the bodies and keep them from making more of a mess. It was lucky that most of it had been spilled in the bathroom, on the tile. Lucky also that the carpet was dark.

“I found these.” He pointed to a pile on the dresser: two guns and two wallets. Neither of the licenses were local. “Called the names into Coulson already. He’s running them through the database.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t find anything.” She looked around the corner. Barton had already gotten most of the blood up from the bathroom floor, using what must have been every spare roll of toilet paper and box of tissues in the room. Some of it was sitting in the toilet, looking like the menstrual cycle from hell.

“You piss anyone off tonight?” he asked.

“Just some women who thought I was poaching.”

“Well, someone’ll be waiting for these guys to report in. Or for their bodies to be found. If they just disappear without a trace— whoever sent them might get nervous. Might slip up.”

“How can we get them out without being seen?”

He pointed. “Same way I came in.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “You can’t get two bodies through the ducts.”

“Sure I can. Long as I get them out before rigor mortis sets in.”

She gave up arguing, because she didn’t have any better ideas. 

“It’ll leave you unprotected, though.”

She stared at him hard. “I can protect myself.”

He wasn’t cowed. “Yeah? You don’t know who sent these people, you have no idea what they’re capable of.”

“I know what _I’m_ capable of.”

He didn’t argue— maybe because _he_ didn’t have any better ideas, either. She helped him hoist the bodies into the vent, which took a lot of coordination and standing on chairs. Then she handed his stuff up to him and, last, put the grate back.

“Be careful,” he said as he contorted himself within the narrow confines of the duct.

“Thanks for the suggestion. It hadn’t occurred to me.” 

She heard a chuckle, and then a prolonged rubbing of plastic on metal, which slowly died down. She rinsed the blood in the shower down the drain, scrubbed ineffectually at the spot on the floor, and turned off the lights. After gathering all her guns in her lap, she sat where she could see the door and the window, and thought. But she didn’t have enough information to draw conclusions, and speculation was fruitless at best. She dragged the heavy armchair in front of the door, booby-trapped the window, and took the blankets into the bathroom to rest while she could.

*

_Fuck_ , but his fingers hurt. He’d had enough broken fingers in his life to recognize the dull insistent throb that swelled into sharp pain whenever he moved them. He needed to wrap up this mission and get to a doctor before they started to heal wrong. He _needed_ those fingers right. It was one of the two things he counted as grace in his life— that Coulson’d dragged him out of the mercenaries and into S.H.I.E.L.D. when he was twenty-one, and that none of his father’s beatings had left him with crooked fingers. Wasn’t much else to add to that list.

He’d jarred them a lot, getting the bodies out of the hotel without being seen— difficult— then back to the car— also difficult— and finally dumping them in the river about twenty miles out of town. He ended up too far away to reasonably camp out in Romanova’s room, and if she was being watched, he didn’t want to risk being seen going in and out of the hotel. Well, of course she was being watched, someone had tried to kill her.

So he hid out on a low ridge that overlooked Turner’s house. Might as well get some intel while he was keeping his head down. He suppressed a sigh and pulled the bottle of painkillers from his pocket. He needed to start carrying something stronger in the field— ibuprofen just wasn’t cutting it. He shook four out onto his pant leg, scooped them up with his good hand, and dry-swallowed them. They probably wouldn’t help any more than the other doses, but he might get a bit of a placebo effect.

How had Turner’s men picked up on him so soon? Turner hadn’t known they were coming. Clint’s car looked exactly like half the other beat-up sedans he’d passed on the interstate. He knew how to blend in in rural areas-- not so much something he'd picked up as camouflage, as something left over from his earlier life. And he hadn’t acted suspicious between the time he’d arrived and the time they’d picked up his tail. Had it been the black eyes? They were almost healed, and he'd been wearing sunglasses most of the time.

He regretted the loss of Romanova’s hotel room, which would have been warm, carpet-soft, and undisturbed. He was too tired to care that she could slit his throat in his sleep. She’d had a lot of opportunities to kill him if she wanted— hell, he’d put a blade into her hands and bared his throat just that night. He shook his head. He really, really needed to… well, this thing with razors wasn’t exactly healthy. Not that that was news. ‘Healthy’ was a luxury, a lot less necessary than ‘functional.’ He couldn’t deny it was nice not to be worrying at stubble as he sat in the dark.

Being that close to her had made something apparent, though, something he’d noticed before but never really _noticed_. She seemed to live in a state of balanced tension, permanently taut but never over-tensed. Like a bowstring, but able to stay that way indefinitely without harm. Well... without _obvious_ harm. He hoped Coulson and Fury were paying attention, because everyone who'd tried to overdraw her, so far, had ended up dead.

He watched the house for any sign that Turner was waiting to hear back from the assassins he’d dispatched. But the house stayed dark. There were a couple guards around the perimeter of the land, which was pretty big, but they weren’t moving. Who else could have sent the assassins but Turner? If Turner had sent them, why? Romanova was a professional, probably the best in her field. He couldn’t her picture her accidentally giving something away. And he didn’t— well, he was _nearly_ sure she wouldn’t have done it deliberately. Because she’d come back for him in Minnesota… and because she’d been there when the assassins had shown up.

Though the assassins hadn’t given either of them much trouble, had they.

The night was warm and sticky enough that he didn't need a blanket, but the mosquitoes had been eating him alive for the past two days. One benefit about having broken fingers— every time he twitched his hand towards the bites, the pain distracted him from the itching. Maybe he would look for a drugstore tomorrow. Maybe S.H.I.E.L.D.’s medical kit had some antihistamine cream. Maybe he could just find the nearest factory and bathe in the stuff. Or maybe S.H.I.E.L.D.’s engineers could make him some sort of tank and lower him in, like in that movie Coulson wouldn’t admit to liking, the one with all the spaceships and the dismemberment.

His chin sank onto his chest. He dozed off, dreaming of vats of itch cream.

*

Natalia could only sleep so long. Even with the Red Room’s extensive training, it wasn’t easy to get past an assassination attempt.

She put on Nadia’s clothes and makeup. The assassins had wielded knives, and they hadn’t broken down the door— they’d been trying to keep it quiet. Would whoever had sent them risk a more conspicuous attempt when they realized this one had failed?

She went down for breakfast. She was finishing her grapefruit when her phone rang, from an unfamiliar local number. “Nadia Richards,” she answered.

“Miss Richards! It’s Rob Turner.”

She smiled so it would carry over into her tone. “Please, call me Nadia.”

“Nadia, then.” He sounded like he was smiling as well. “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

“Not at all. I’m an early riser.”

“That’s commendable. Would you still like to shoot today?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Excellent.” He gave her directions, and the code for the gate. She agreed to meet him in an hour.

Before she got in the bugged car, she tapped her earpiece. “On my way to Turner’s place.” She rattled off the gate code, too, just in case Barton could use it.

It took a moment for him to respond. “Copy.” Barton sounded groggy, even though it was nine in the morning. Well, he’d had a rough night. “I dumped your visitors. I’m clear for now, but they’ll probably pick my tail up again if I get too close. Gonna try to get back to the base.”

“Copy.”

“Hey, if you go by a drugstore, pick up some itch cream.”

“What?”

“Mosquitoes, Romanova, mosquitoes. We didn’t all spend the night in swanky hotels.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Turner’s house was a sprawling compound surrounded by intricate but highly-functional fencing. She parked on the long driveway; as she got out of the car, Turner came out of the front door to meet her. He didn’t try to take her hand again. “You look fresh and rested after such a late night.”

“The hotel bed is wonderful,” she said, then couldn’t resist adding, “I slept— what’s the phrase? like a baby?”

Turner didn’t turn a hair. “Excellent. Let’s walk through the house to the range. Alabama’s at her hottest and most humid right now, I’m afraid.”

The range had two lanes, with both targets set at a distance for handguns. There was a selection of pistols spread out on the bench. “I’ve gotten out a couple of guns I think you might enjoy,” he said. “They’re small, but they pack a punch. Perfectly calibrated, of course.”

She took Nadia’s revolver from her purse and examined the other guns. “Thank you. These are very nice.” The man had decent taste in guns; there was nothing set out that was better than what she usually used, but a few of them came close. Did S.H.I.E.L.D. have anything like the little snub-nosed pistol on the end? It might be worth a look when she got back to base.

As a good host, he let her shoot first. She put on the safety glasses and earplugs, loaded her first choice, and emptied it into the target. It was still annoying to have to pretend to be less competent than she was. Nadia Richards was a good shot, but she wasn’t an internationally renowned assassin. Natalia shot carefully so that her groupings would be small, but not too narrow, and aimed slightly right of center so Turner would think she had a targeting problem. Then she put down the gun and slipped the earplugs out.

Turner moved to stand behind her and survey her results. “Not bad at all. I think you’re shooting a bit to the right. Sometimes that happens to right-handed people— the right arm is stronger, so it pulls the gun out of alignment.” He returned to the next booth, put on his own protective gear, and demonstrated the correct way to do it.

_I could do better drunk_ , Natalia thought, looking at the width of his groupings. “Very impressive, Mr. Turner,” Nadia said, when she had taken out her earplugs.

“Please, call me Rob.”

She put her earplugs back in, and emptied another clip. She let her shots drift closer to center, but still off-side.

“Hmm,” Turner said when she could hear again. “May I?”

At her nod, he came behind her and corrected her stance. “Like that.” It gave him a convenient excuse to put his arms around her and have one of them pressed against her breast. She put her earplugs back in and fired. He looked satisfied that her shots grouped closer to the center.

_As if that was YOUR doing_ , she thought, and smiled prettily. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

As Turner took another turn, she loaded another gun. “Do you generally spend the summer in Boston?” he asked.

“Oh, no. Much too hot, and crowded, and smelly. I have a little place up in the mountains. It’s nice and secluded. The hunting is good, and the fishing.” She took her turn. “And it’s private, and easily defended,” she added when she was done, with a cute smile, as if they were sharing an inside joke.

“Do you have stockpiles?”

She wasn’t sure if he meant food or ammo, but Nadia would have both. “Oh, yes.”

“Good. It’s good to have a place out of the way where you can, ah… hole up for a nice vacation.” He took another turn. “One day the world will go to hell, and all those poor fools in cities will find it falling down around their ears.”

“Is that why you live so far out here?”

“One reason, yes. It’s easier to defend myself out here. There’s no one else for some distance. And if anything big ever happens— _if_ , you understand— I’ll be in a good place.”

“Something big?” she asked curiously.

“The world’s an uncertain place, Nadia.” He wiped his sweaty forehead; the ceiling fan wasn’t doing much good. “Very uncertain. Civil authority is just for show. It wouldn’t be able to meet any _real_ challenge.”

It would be suspicious to ask more pointed questions just then. They shot for about another half an hour. Then Turner put down the gun and wiped his forehead again. “Would you like to come back to the house for a drink? Alabama’s God’s own country, but I think he put the devil in charge of summers.”

She smiled. “I would appreciate that.”

Like the gentleman he thought he was, Turner took charge of the guns and didn’t let her carry any of them. She picked up her purse and squinted against the bright sun once they left the pavilion. “You should get a hat,” Turner said. “A big floppy one, like some of the ladies wear.”

She slid her sunglasses on. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said with a playful smile.

She expected him to have a large staff, but the kitchen was empty. It also looked like he actually used it. He opened the refrigerator. “Beer? Iced tea? Lemonade? Or I can mix you something stronger.”

“Iced tea would be lovely.” She took a seat at the kitchen island.

“Good choice.” He took out a pitcher and two tall glasses. “I learned my lesson about beer’s dehydrating effects the hard way, when I was just a boy. We get some Yankees down here who can’t handle the heat— the hotter it gets, the more they drink, and the next thing you know they’re keeled over in a heap on the grass.”

She gave him a mock-demure look. “I’m Russian, Rob. I can hold my alcohol.”

He laughed, even though it hadn’t been that funny. “Touché.” He handed her one glass, and raising the other in a toast.

The tea was very, _very_ sweet. She drank it down and kept herself from gagging. “Refreshing, thank you.”

“I’m having a few friends over tonight,” he said when he’d taken several swallows. “Nothing formal, just drinks and dinner. Starting at seven. I’d be honored if you’d join us.”

“Why, that’s very kind of you.”

“I think the conversation would interest you.”

“I’ll be sure to come.” The door behind her open; she turned slowly, because Nadia’s reflexes weren’t as good as Natalia’s. It was one of the men from the ball— Lewis, in fact.

“Ah, Lewis,” Turner said. “You’re early. I was just inviting Nadia over for tonight.”

Lewis looked her over speculatively. “It will be a treat to have you join us.”

She simpered. “I certainly don’t want to be in your way if you gentlemen have business.” She put down her empty glass, and reached for her purse.

Turner demurred, but didn’t actually try to stop her from leaving. He walked her to her car, held out his hand for the keys, and opened the door for her. Nadia smiled and even managed a bit of a blush as she said goodbye. Natalia was unimpressed. Opening a car door took no effort, but it was supposed to mark a man out as a gentleman? Why couldn’t the stakes for being a “lady” be that low? It would make her job a hell of a lot easier.

Once she reached the highway, she passed the exit for her hotel and continued towards the large mall down the road. That made a good excuse stay on the road long enough to see if she was being tailed. A grey sedan, carrying two men, stayed stubbornly about two hundred yards back, no matter how many semis she passed. The car was bugged; she could pull into a parking lot, get out, and use the cell phone trick again, but at this point she wouldn’t put it past them to steal her phone and check the history. So she took the exit for the mall and headed for the most upscale boutique. The men trailed her into the mall, but the store she chose only carried women's clothes, so they were forced to lurk awkwardly a few yards outside the entrance, pretending to be waiting for someone. She pretended not to see them, and chose of dresses that might have been suitable for a casual dinner party. Then she went to the dressing rooms in the back, lingering outside just long enough to watch what happened when one of the men entered the store and tried to drift in her direction. As she'd hoped, the sales ladies were vigilant. Two of them descended on him with stern faces as soon as it became obvious he was moving towards the dressing rooms. He retreated, looking sheepish.

She chose the room farthest from the door and shuffled hangers for covering noise. She tapped her earpiece. “Barton.”

“Yeah.” He sounded out of breath.

“Turner’s having something at his house tonight. He’s invited me to come hear the revolution talk.”

“Sounds promising.” She heard the _pop_ of rifle fire.

“Yeah.”

“I should be able to get into position to give you backup, but I won’t be able to get too close.” “With both of us there, and at the house instead of the base, it might be a good chance to grab him.”

“I think he’s got some stuff in his office at the house.” Barton's voice was uneven, as if he were running. “Can you find an excuse to check it?”

“Cacantne ursi in silvis?” she muttered.

There was a pause. “Not if they’re polar bears.”

“Is that how you want to cause a distraction? With bears?”

“How about this: I start shooting things, you sneak upstairs and check the office, then we grab Turner and get out. I caused some damage to the base today. Don’t know if it’s enough to satisfy Upstairs, but we can always sit on Turner and go back later.”

“Okay.” Pause. “Hey, uh…” she wasn’t sure if she should mention it. “How’s the hand?”

“Fine.” He obviously changed the subject. “What time tonight?”

“Seven.”

“That’s before sunset. Darkness would give us a better advantage.”

“I’ll stall if the party breaks up early.” She frowned. “Why don’t we just wait until everyone leaves? I’m sure I can convince Turner to let me stay. You shooting things can be a backup plan.”

Pause. “You sure you, uh, wanna do that?”

“I know what I’m doing, Barton.” There was a big difference between convincing someone they wanted to fuck you, and actually fucking them.

“Okay, okay.” More rifle fire. “Just, um… well. You know what you’re doing.”

He’d been there, hadn’t he, when she’d given Coulson her two conditions. She relented. “Uh, thanks. For the. Thought.”

“Yeah.” He was running again. “Did Turner seem spooked when you were out there?”

“No. Why?”

“I’ve been fighting with his guys for a while now. Thought that might shake him up.”

“Apparently not. Maybe he thinks he can get more money out of me and is keeping up a pretense.” She frowned at the peripheral noise from his end. “I thought Coulson said no killing.”

“That’s why this is so damned _difficult_.” He sounded irritated. “I’m just keeping their heads down. Hey, I gotta go fake my death,” he said breathlessly. “I’ll be in position by seven.”

“Copy.” She sat in the dressing room for another few minutes to make it convincing. She frowned at one of the dresses. When someone who could impersonate world-class gymnasts thought your clothes looked difficult to get into, your design process was fundamentally flawed. She shook her head, and headed out for another boring day of being a revolutionary socialite. 

While she was at the hotel, a fierce thunderstorm blew through and dropped the temperature by twenty degrees. It was a refreshing change from the sticky heat, but her cocktail dress wasn't very warm. She turned the heat on in the car to keep from shivering as she drove back to Turner's house. She was fashionably late, on purpose; she wanted to observe the conversation, not shape it. Turner greeted her effusively and poured her a drink. She stayed at his side, close enough to signal interest but not so close to be conspicuous, and listened to the conversation, but didn’t contribute much. Nadia was naturally modest, and didn’t know anyone in the room well.

She slowly steered the group so she was in a position to watch the room, and see who talked to whom. These were all supposedly Turner’s “friends,” but it looked like there was some back room dealing going on, over what, she didn't know. Some of them were nervous, as well— at least one man was drinking way too much.

Someone in a chef’s hat slipped through the crowd to Turner’s side. Supper would be coming soon; she went to “powder her nose” while her absence was still inconspicuous. Getting lost on the way to the bathroom was an amateur’s trick, but not necessarily a bad idea.

She learned the layout of the house without taking more than one “wrong” turn. On her way back, she passed a man who was standing at the window, looking out into the hills. “Miss Richards, hello.” It was Lewis.

She stopped and went back to him. “Mr. Lewis. Having a nice time?”

“Oh, yes.” He offered his hand. She shook it. “I would tell you to call me Scruggs, but then you would be in the unfortunate position of having to call me Scruggs.”

She laughed. The drunk man stumbled past on the way to the bathroom. “It’s a good act,” Lewis said.

She watched him go. “Really? I think he’s actually drunk.” Was Lewis suspicious of all the traffic “to the bathroom”?

“Oh, no, I meant yours.”

Nadia was confused. Natalia was instantly hyper-aware. “I’m sorry?”

“I thought I recognized you at the ball, but I wasn’t sure until you made two skilled assassins disappear without a trace.”

“I’m sorry, I… maybe you should switch to water?” She edged back nervously.

He smiled appreciatively. “It really is a good act. It’s been a long time, Widow.”

*

Someone was moving by the house, and they didn’t look like a guard. Clint stared through his scope. He tapped his earpiece. “Romanova? That you?”

No response. He tapped it again. “Report.” But the silence persisted. He tightened his finger against the rifle. Whoever it was, they were making straight for the fence. It looked like the right size and shape for Romanova, but at this distance, even he couldn’t tell. He fumbled in his bag for his binoculars. He glanced away to find them, and when he looked back, the figure was over the fence— and sprinting straight through a flooded plain towards his hiding spot. “Romanova!”

Why wasn’t she answering her comm, whether or not that was her? Had they taken it from her? If so, he’d just accidentally betrayed her name. He tapped his earpiece— and realized he couldn’t hear it click. _Shit_. He’d taken it out for his trip in the river, then had had to reinsert it with his right hand. Obviously he hadn’t done a great job. He jammed his finger in his ear and fumbled with the thing until he felt it slide into the right spot.

“— blown,” Romanova was saying breathlessly. “Barton!”

“Copy, copy. Sorry.”

“I’m blown. Someone recognized me inside.” Her voice was ragged; that was definitely her running below.

“Did you get out clean?”

“I left an unconscious body. It won’t be long before he’s discovered.”

“Okay. Just keep coming, you’re headed in the right direction. How’d you know, by the way?” “I know how to find cover.” She sounded annoyed. “You’re on the best high ground in any direction.”

She needed directions to actually find him, once she got to the correct ridge. He was pleased at her surprise when she nearly tripped over him. She sank down beside him. “You’re good at this.”

He accepted the compliment silently. “What happened?”

She tucked her bare feet in her lap— her shoes were in her hand. “Lewis IDed me. He called me Widow.”

“Where do you know him from?”

“I don’t—“ She swallowed. “I don’t remember him. I don’t recognize him at all.”

He winced, but was careful not to let her see. “I’ll call in.” He switched frequencies. “Base, this is Hawkeye.”

“Hawkeye, go ahead.” He recognized the voice: Sitwell, Coulson’s protégé.

“Need information on a Scruggs Lewis. He made the Widow.”

“Need an extraction?”

“Not yet.”

He heard furious typing. “Where does she know him from?”

“She doesn’t.”

The typing stopped. “Hawkeye—“

“Check with the boss.”

“Boss’s busy, Hawkeye.”

“Then get me my information and fight about it later,” he snapped.

“Copy,” Sitwell said, drily. “Sit tight.”

“He didn’t believe you?” Romanova murmured.

“He’ll get us what we need.” He looked through the scope. “They’re searching for you now.”

He didn’t understand the Russian word she said, but he knew it by its tone. “I tried to narrow it down by the gaps in my memory, but I have no way of knowing if those memories are accurate.” She sounded upset. She sounded upset enough that he could _tell_.

“Our people are good. We’ll figure it out.” 

She didn’t even snap at him for trying to reassure her. Clint was starting to actually worry. And Romanova was starting to shiver; her legs were wet and muddy up to her knee. He reached into the bag and handed her his jacket. “Here.”

She zipped it up and pulled her arms inside the sleeves to wrap them around her body. Then she put them out again and started rubbing the soles of her feet. She poked one of her toes, and frowned.

“Can’t feel your feet?”

“It’s cold.”

“Give them to me.”

She looked at him like he’d said puppies were tasty. Well, no, that probably wouldn’t have produced as strong of a reaction. She'd probably eaten worse. “ _What?_ ”

“Your feet. We might have to run. If you can’t feel them, you’re gonna fall.” Even in the dark, he could tell she was thrown. He felt a little satisfied. _What, you thought you were the only one who could make disconcerting offers_? It was a pretty benign offer, after all. It wasn’t like he’d, oh, say, offered to back her up against a wall and hold a knife to her throat for several minutes.

“Your hand is broken.”

“I’ve been wearing sniper’s gloves— glove— all evening. Unlike you, my hands are warm.”

She stared at him with open suspicion he could see even in the dark. He checked the compound again while he waited for her to make up her mind. Carefully, she untucked one leg and put her foot across his legs, near his knees. She was watching him with wariness, and with something akin to fascination, as if he’d just started speaking in tongues. He dried the bottom of her foot with the edge of his sweatshirt, then sandwiched it between his two palms. “You’re not ticklish, are you?”

“The Red Room didn’t allow that kind of weakness.”

He _really_ didn’t want to think about that. He focused on the fact that she wouldn’t be breaking his jaw with a reflexive kick.

“S.H.I.E.L.D.’s not going to have the answers soon enough.” She was staring towards the compound. “We need a new plan.”

“Give them time. Those guys haven’t finished searching the compound yet.” Warmth was starting to return to her foot. It was strong, he noticed, and delicate, with high arches and well-sculpted toes. “Can I ask you something?”

“I can’t stop you.”

“How much of the way you look is because of the Red Room?”

She tensed-- enough that he could feel it, anyway, and he wondered if he'd just done a very stupid thing. After a minute, she relaxed, slowly. “I think they operated on us when we were small. Cosmetic surgery, I mean, in addition to the brain surgery. But I don’t remember it.” She watched him, eyes narrowed. “Most people just look at me and see what they want to see.”

He shrugged. “I’ve always had good eyes.”

“I’m not convinced you’re any different.”

He looked at her, but she didn’t elaborate. She had good eyes, too; her character assessments were like weapons. Was she right? What did he want to see, when he looked at her?

She took her foot back and put the other across his legs. “Here,” he said. He stripped off his glove and pulled it over her toes. 

“That’s ridiculous,” she complained, but didn’t pull away.

They waited, for Sitwell to respond, and for something to happen below. Romanova was shaking. He didn’t know if it was from the cold, or the stress of encountering an enemy she didn’t remember. Maybe both. She took her other foot back and tucked her legs up in a complicated, painful-looking arrangement that put her feet inside her knees. “Thanks. For the… uh… warmth.” She sounded like each word was being dragged out of her.

“Welcome.”

“Oh.” She handed him a small tube from her bag. “Here.”

Was it—? It _was_. He slathered the ointment all over his exposed skin, which made the bites itch again. He gritted his teeth and waited. “Oh, God,” he groaned, when the stuff started to work. “This is wonderful. Will you marry me?”

There was a pointed silence. _Oh, shit_ , he thought, realizing what he’d said. She had a sense of humor, right? She’d shown faint signs of one. Occasionally. She probably wasn’t going to take disproportionate offense and kill him horribly.

Probably.

“Was that addressed to me or God?” she asked after a minute.

“Um… you.”

“No.”

“I wasn’t serious. Just. Y’know. Glad you brought me the stuff.”

“Proposing marriage is your way of saying thanks?”

He honestly couldn’t tell if she really didn’t get it or she was having him on. He cleared his throat. “Well. When you put it that way.”

“Do you ask Coulson that?” she said after a minute or two.

“Oh, at least three times.” She didn’t respond, so he plowed on. “He turned me down. _Every time_.” He made a sad face for her benefit.

She was still quiet, but at least she probably wasn’t plotting his imminent demise. Then: “What do you want from me?”

Plotting his imminent demise might actually have been preferable. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said flatly.

“Fine, okay, you’re right, I do want something from you. I want you _not_ to go on a murderous rampage and break out of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

She waited. “And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Then: “Why didn’t you kill me in Klaipeda?”

“ _God_.” He was irritated. “I told you, I can’t tell you.”

“And you expect me to believe _that_?”

“I can’t control what you believe. I can control whether or not I _lie_ to you and give you a fake answer.”

“Fine,” she said crisply after a minute, and changed the subject. “We’re going to lose the window of opportunity here. We have to do something. If we wait until the search spreads into the hills, we can get into the house—“

“That’s half a mile of flat, coverless ground. They’d see us and they’d shoot us.” He looked through the scope, to see how close the search was to them. Down below, a jeep pulled up to the house and five armed men scrambled out. “Your cover’s blown. They think I’m dead right now, but if I start shooting, they’ll come after me pretty quick. Short of sneaking in and grabbing Turner from under the nose of all those guys, there’s nothing you can do.”

“There’s one thing,” she said.

*

She cut north along the ridge to get away from where Barton was hiding, then climbed down to the plain, carefully. She didn’t want to scrape her hands or feet and give them the idea she’d been poking around in the hills. She eluded the searchers until she was nearly back to the house. Then she let them find her.

They nearly shot her on sight. She had time to second-guess her plan before they searched her roughly, and stripped her of all her weapons. They checked for an earpiece, too; leaving hers with Barton had been a good call. They handcuffed her and propelled her roughly towards the house.

Turner pulled up in a jeep. He looked her over once with a contemptuous stare. “Get her inside.” They picked her up and dumped her in the back of the jeep like so much luggage, then tied her ankles. “Was there any sign of the other one?”

“No. I’m pretty sure we shot him earlier. We’re watching the river to see if the body turns up.” The first sign that things were going wrong was when they threw a tarp over her. That meant they were taking the road, not going back to the house. She could get out of her handcuffs if she had to, get her feet free, and then escape from the jeep. If she could take one of them down, she could steal his gun and use it to kill the rest. But Coulson had said no deaths, and she still wouldn’t have what she’d come for.

The jeep bounced down to the gate. The turns they took indicated they were heading for the highway. They traveled fast for a few minutes, the wind making the tarp flap uncomfortably in her face. Then they pulled onto an unpaved road. She could breathe more easily, but she bounced with every root and rock they drove over.

They stopped. She wasn’t surprised when the tarp came off to reveal Turner’s “training grounds”— a couple of low, bunker-like buildings clustered together. If they wanted somewhere even more remote than his house, they must be planning something unpleasant.

They dragged her inside and tied her to a chair. The room was dim and featureless, with a heavy door, small windows near the ceiling, and a single lightbulb. There were four other men besides Turner and Lewis; they all had pistols, and the other men had assault rifles. What benefit did they think those would be in such a small space?

Turner stepped in front of her. “Who are you working for?”

She stared silently at him. He gestured to one of his men, who hit her hard in the stomach, knocking the breath out of her. She doubled over as far as the ropes would let her, panting; the movement rocked the chair, and one of the men grabbed her by her hair, hauling her upright.

She mapped the location of each man in her head, and made a battle plan. It would be easy to get out. They hadn’t even tied her _legs_. Lewis had called her the Widow, so he must know her capabilities, but apparently they thought six of them was enough to even the odds. 

Morons.

But she needed more. If she couldn’t get Turner out, she needed what he knew.

Turner gestured again, and they hit her twice in the stomach this time, the second blow coming just as she started to recover from the first. They didn’t have a lot of imagination. She needed to be careful not to let them cause internal bleeding— that always complicated things. She let herself groan a little through closed lips. She saw Turner hear it, and he changed tactics to exploit what he saw as her weakness. “You know, I believed you, I liked you,” he said. “You seemed sincere. Guess that goes to show, never trust a Russian.”

They stomped on her foot this time, hard enough to break bones, but she turned her heel so that the force didn’t damage anything delicate. “But it doesn’t have to be this way,” Turner continued. “Tell us who you’re working for, and we’ll go after him, not you.” 

She laughed, and one of the guards shifted uneasily. Turner turned, from where he had been pacing like a monologuing megalomaniac. “What’s funny?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he had his men hit her across the face. After one of them punched her face, she licked blood from a split lip.

“I would pay good money to see that,” she said, speaking in Natalia's American accent rather than Nadia's Russian one.

“What?”

“You taking on my employer.”

Turner’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“It’d be like a cage match.”

He frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The two of you are a lot alike.”

He came closer. “Another militia sent you here?”

She tilted her head. “He has an interest in militias.”

“ _Who_?”

She glanced away, then back at him.

Turner’s eyes narrowed again. “I can promise you a short and fairly pleasant interval, or a long and very unpleasant interval, but in the end, we will get the information out of you, so why don’t you make it easy on yourself?”

She didn’t respond. They continued to beat her. They weren’t professionals, and they didn’t know how to cause truly excruciating pain. But professionals knew how to do only the permanent damage they _intended_ , while amateurs like these could easily accidentally do something that would be hard to repair. She needed her body to stay intact and beautiful-- it was her deadliest weapon.

She let it drag out. Finally Turner took out a pocketknife and put the point beneath her thumbnail. “Who hired you?” He started to press.

She let it go for a count of three, then made herself take a deep, uneven breath. “Someone who wanted to keep an eye on you.”

He didn’t back off. “That’s not enough!”

“Why don’t you talk to him yourself!” she cried, voice rough and loud, pretending to be in more pain than she was.

The pain vanished; Turner stepped back. That was stupid-- he should have pressed his advantage while she appeared vulnerable. “It’s someone I know.”

She glanced away again. “You could say that. Yes.” She let sarcasm leach into her voice.

Turner frowned. He had the beginnings of an idea, now— he wasn’t entirely clueless. But he probably thought he was imagining it. He yanked her hair back and pressed the knife to her artery. “A _name_.”

“Can I tell him?” she asked.

“Don’t play _games_ ,” Turner shouted. “Don’t you understand that I can kill you, right now?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting out of this farce—“ she continued.

“ _It’s not a farce_.” The point of the knife dug in deeper.

“I wasn’t _talking_ to you.”

Pause. The knife went away. “Then who the _hell_ are you talking to?”

“My _employer_.”

He released her hair. She tilted her head back to its normal position. He turned to look at Lewis, then back at her. Lewis looked shocked, then angry. “You better not believe it’s _me_.”

“You’re not paying me enough to take the fall for you,” she said. “You said it was simple espionage. Just checking the books.”

Turner got in Lewis’s face. “ _You hired her_?”

“NO!” Lewis roared. “She’s _lying_ , can’t you see, she’s playing you like a fool!”

“He said he wanted to protect his ‘investment.’” She was talking directly to Turner now. “All those guns he’s been buying for you? Wanted to check up on any other sponsors you had.” She gave Lewis a contemptuous look. “Pretty convenient for him to finger me as a spy and let you do the dirty work. It cleans up his loose ends nicely.”

“How did she know I bought the guns?” Lewis demanded.

“Because you TOLD her!” The knife was now definitely between Turner and Lewis. Lewis looked to one side, then the other, as if realizing for the first time that he was outnumbered five to one.

“Listen! Listen, Rob.” Lewis made a placating gesture. “She’s playing us both. Trying to turn us against each other. I didn’t hire her. Hell, she knocked me out tonight! She could have slit my throat.”

“So why didn’t she?”

“… ask all my men,” Lewis said. “They’ll tell you, they’ve never seen her before. I’m telling you, I didn’t hire her!”

“Can you prove that?” Turner demanded.

“Hey. Let’s cut a deal,” she said to Turner at the same time. “I’m not too fond of my current employer right now, and I have information about him you could use. You let me go, and I’ll tell you.”

Turner hesitated. 

Lewis turned red with rage. 

“You tell me everything you know about Lewis, and I’ll let you go, no hard feelings.”

“Deal.” She nodded once.

“Untie her,” he ordered. The nearest man started cutting through the ropes on her right wrist. Lewis roared with anger, and went for his gun. Turner went for him. She nodded a second, a third, then a fourth time. She tensed herself to tackle the nearest guard, because she only half-believed that—

The window blew in and the light went dark at the same moment, spraying glass everywhere. Damn it, they’d only done one wrist. A room this small would turn into a massacre if Lewis got his gun free. She swung and hit the nearest guard in the temple— he’d frozen at the shot. Natalia took half a second to admit that it had been a very difficult shot. Then she crouched, grabbed his knife, and sliced through the other ropes. She swung the chair and hit someone else in the head. Two down. She patted the guard down until she found his gun. Then she made a break for the door. Another shot went off, deafening in the small space, but that one wasn't Barton. She heard scuffling and heavy breathing to her left. The moon was on the other side of the sky, and there was barely any light in the room, but she could make out dim shapes. She grabbed the door, shoved it open, got herself and the chair through, and slammed it closed. She couldn’t hold it long— but she didn’t need to.

“She’s getting away!” Lewis shouted inside. “ _Damn it, Turner_ —“

Another shot. Someone tried to force the door open. She let herself be shoved backwards. As soon as a head appeared, she struck it with the butt of her stolen gun. He was obliging enough to topple forward out of the doorway, so she could slam the door closed again. She shoved the chair under the knob so she could search the third unconscious guard and throw his weapons away, down the hall. She didn’t want him waking up and shooting her in the back.

She needed to get Turner and Lewis out before they killed each other. She searched the guard again and found a lighter. It took a minute for the chair to catch, but it started smoking nicely. She kicked it away from the door before the flames had spread to the legs, and hauled the unconscious guard so he was between the outside door and the blaze. “FIRE!” she yelled. “HE’S TRYING TO KILL US ALL, THERE ARE MEN—“ she cut off with a shrill scream and kicked the wall, making a heavy _thud_. Then she fired three shots into the ceiling.

Turner burst through the door. She lunged up and tackled him, bringing him to the ground hard, knocking the wind out of him. Before he could recover, she had her arm across his throat. She counted— right on schedule, he went limp.

He was heavy. She barely got him across the hall and to his feet before the last guard came through the door. He stopped when he saw her gun at Turner’s temple. “Don’t move, or your boss dies,” she ordered.

He froze.

“Put your gun down and kick it down the hall.” She gestured in the direction of the flaming chair. “Both your guns.”

He obeyed— Lewis lunged out of the doorway and tackled him. They both fell to the ground. Lewis rolled the guard over and leveled his gun at her— she took a chance, and shot him in the arm. Then she let Turner drop and kicked forward, knocking the gun out of his hand. He swore, and reached for the unconscious guard, but the other guard had recovered and socked him in the stomach. Lewis grabbed for her— she ducked— he shoved her against the wall. The blow disoriented her. She recovered just in time to see him vanish out the door.

Movement in the corner of her eye— she brought her gun up just as the guard reached for his own gun. “Don’t move.” Natalia carefully got to her feet, hauling Turner by the back of his shirt. She nodded down the hall to where the chair had caught a door on fire. “I bet there’s enough wood in this building for it to go up. You can try to chase me and save your boss, but that means leaving your three friends here to burn to death.” She watched that sink in. “I’m not going to hurt your boss. He’s useless to me dead. Also, if you go for that gun I’ll shoot you.”

Slowly, the guard raised his hands, staying where she was. She inched sideways towards the exterior door, keeping Turner between her and the guard but looking towards the door in case Lewis came back. The flames were crackling briskly now. The guard looked over his shoulder with concern. She hurried— made it to the door, turned to sweep the area—

—and nearly shot Barton as he stepped out of the trees hauling an unconscious Lewis. He was whistling. “Found something you lost.”

She returned his smirk as she closed the door, but left it unlocked. “There’s one more in there. I told him to get the others out before the whole place goes up.”

“Car’s back there.” Barton pointed to the other side of the clearing. 

She started hauling Turner in that direction. “How the hell did you get in position so quickly?”

His smirk grew. “I’m good.” Then it disappeared entirely. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

They hauled their loads for a minute. “Wasn’t an easy thing to watch.”

She gave him a contemptuous look. Wasn’t an easy thing to _watch_? As if it had been easy for _her_?

The car was hidden in the trees, far enough that the last guard probably wouldn’t find it. Barton dumped Lewis by the wheels and tossed her a bundle of rope. “Here.” 

“Where are you going?”

“I know where they keep the ammo.”

Her eyebrows went up. She searched both men, tied them securely, and managed to shove them in the back seat. She heard the door to the building open, and turned to watch as the guard stumbled out, dragging two bodies. He dumped them and went back for the third. One of the men started to stir by the time the other guard re-emerged. Good— Coulson had said no death— but if enough of them woke up, they might attack.

Barton came back at a jog. “Let’s go.”

“Get it started,” she ordered. He didn’t ask questions, just got the engine going. The two conscious guards looked in their direction. One reached for his gun. She took careful aim, and fired four times. She could only hit three of the jeep’s tires plus the spare, but that was enough. Then she scrambled into the car. Barton floored it. She watched in the mirror as the two guards started hauling the unconscious ones farther away from the burning building.

“It looked like a bunch of Turner’s guys were following him here,” Barton said over the bouncing of the car. “The place might be pretty empty by now.”

“That means we’ll pass them.”

“Good point.” He braked hard. She nearly went into the dashboard. “Switch places with me.”

She bailed out of the car and vaulted over the hood as Barton scrambled across the seats. “Head for the road?”

“Yep.”

They saw the first truck coming as they sped out of the woods. She swerved to give Barton an unimpeded shot. He took out two of the tires, which was a lot more impressive than what she had done, considering they were doing about sixty down an unpaved road. He reloaded before they met the next truck, and managed to get three of the tires on that one. The third jeep found them as they were almost back to the highway. It must have heard the shots, because it opened fire from a distance. Natalia ducked and heard bullets fly through both windshields. The car swerved, but when she straightened, she saw that Barton had somehow managed to take out those tires, too. He raked the truck, shooting over the top, until he ran out of bullets, but that gave them enough time to escape. The ammunition blew up just as they reached the road. She hoped none of Turner's people had been foolish enough to try to stop it, and gotten themselves killed in the process.

The gate was locked when they got there. Barton scrambled out and entered the code Turner had given her. “I’ll go, you wait with the car,” she said. He nodded. She hurried inside, watching and listening for anyone who had stayed behind. She didn’t meet anyone as she slipped up the stairs and into the office. She rifled through the desk, grabbing anything that looked useful, and then stripped the wall decorations until she found the safe. She hadn’t really thought this through— she didn’t have any gear with her. She looked at the safe, looked up at the roof, and frowned.

She went downstairs to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife she find. The safe was the right size for weight-bearing walls, but judging by the architecture, that wall of Turner’s office wasn’t one. Which meant… she took the knife to the drywall, and smiled at what she found: the safe was sitting in a gap too wide for it, not bolted to the studs. _Moron_. She got to work. Her arms burned, but she got the safe cut out of the wall. It was small, but still heavy, and—

Something at the edge of her hearing was beeping. Softly. She frowned, then looked back in the hole, and saw the blinking light.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” she said blankly.

The bomb was not fucking kidding her.

She ran, stumbling down the stairs and making her ankle go _pop_ in her haste. How much time did she have? Had Turner wired the _whole house_ to go up if the safe had been compromised? She could drop the safe and run for it— but she was strangely reluctant to give up on her mission parameters—

She burst through the front door. Barton had the car turned around, pointed in the right direction. She threw the safe in the front seat. “GO!” she yelled, still hanging half out of the car. He didn’t question her, just gunned it. She dove inside right before the acceleration knocked her backwards. The sharp edge of the safe dug into her back. She hung on and managed to get the door closed. 

The force and the sound of the bomb hit the car at the same time. She lost her balance and hit her head on the dashboard.

She woke up. She couldn’t have been out that long, they were still in the car, it was still functional, still moving forward. Those were the important things. There was something on her neck— Barton was feeling for a pulse, holding the wheel with the hand that had three broken fingers while doing about ninety down the road. She batted his hand away. “‘m fine.”

“Welcome back.”

He focused on driving. She stayed crouched in the footwell, trying to regain her center. Turner, his papers, the base, and Lewis as a bonus. That was everything. If they could make it out safely, they were done.

Her arms had cramped from the weight of the safe. She slowly unbent each one, massaging them. Then she laboriously shifted the safe to the footwell and buckled herself into the seat. “Where are we going?”

“Redstone has a S.H.I.E.L.D. liaison. They’ll meet us there, take our passengers off our hands.”

She looked at the speedometer. “Are you _trying_ to attract attention?”

He made a pained noise and slowed down. After a minute she bit. “What?”

“It is physically painful to go the speed limit.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you’ll survive.”

She kept a careful eye out for other vehicles. She didn’t know how obvious the bullet hole in the windshield was, but if they got pulled over, they wouldn’t have many options besides knocking out the police officer. But Barton was sticking to back roads, and they didn’t attract any attention.

Turner woke up. First he muttered a string of oaths, then he started to shout for help. Barton swerved and pulled off the road, stopping the car and taking the keys out. She turned to watch him open the trunk.

“Fuck,” Turner muttered. “If you hadn’t hired that bitch—“

“You still don’t get it.” Lewis sounded even more hazy and slurred than Turner did. “She works for someone else. They got us both.”

Turner paused, then took a breath and started screaming again. Barton slammed the trunk and tossed the duffel bag in through the window. He opened the back door, squatted down, and stuffed something in Turner’s mouth— a sock. Barton watched him carefully, then nodded, satisfied he could still breathe. He did the same with Lewis, checked their bonds, and got back in the car. As he continued to drive, he kept looking up through the windshield.

“What?”

“Wondering about attacks from the air. They could make up the lost time that way.”

She twisted and pulled the gag from Turner’s mouth. “Do your guys have helicopters?”

“Yes. Fifty,” he spat savagely.

She stuffed the gag back in. “He said no.” 

As she turned back, she saw Barton’s right arm— his bicep was covered in blood, fresh blood, not from the earlier injury. He saw her staring, and glanced down. “Just a graze. Didn’t stick. Speaking of, is that your blood?”

“Is what my blood?”

He pointed to, but did not touch, the left side of her head. She put her fingers up to it— they came away sticky and red. “Apparently.”

“There’s a little kit in the duffel.”

Natalia stopped the bleeding as they rode through the night. She started to shake. She let herself, because it had gotten even colder, and shivering was an acceptable excuse. “This thing have any heat?” She pushed buttons until she found it.

When they reached the base, the guards were both hostile and curious. Barton flashed a badge that shut them up and got the gate open immediately. It didn’t stop them from looking, though, and she thought they recognize the passengers in the back seat.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. liaison was off-post, dealing with “an unusual problem.” That didn't sound good, and she could tell Barton didn't like it, either. He called for extraction. One of the sergeants had a small, windowless storeroom hastily emptied for them. She checked it for vulnerabilities. Then they tied Turner to a chair at one end, Lewis to a chair at the other, and put the safe in the middle. They kept the gags in.

The helpful sergeant brought them a gallon of water and a medical kit. She and Barton passed the supplies back and forth, gingerly sponging the blood off of themselves. She wondered about his hand, but didn’t ask; the bandages were filthy.

She looked up to find Barton watching her again, with that same assessing gaze. She made her expression impassive as she stared back. “You all right?” he asked.

_Damn you to hell_. She was still having microtremors, just the faintest of shakes, but they shouldn’t have been perceptible to him— she could barely feel them. When she let someone hurt her, she had to stuff part of herself down, out of the way, where it wouldn’t make a fuss with its ridiculous fears and self-preservation instincts. She always came back from that with some sort of aftershock. It was stupid. It was _weak_. And Barton, damn him, had noticed. Letting someone else perceive a vulnerability— a real one, not a feigned one— was a beginner’s error. The Red Room would have been ashamed of her. “Food would help.” Let him dare pursue the subject if he noticed she hadn’t actually answered the question.

The sergeant brought them sealed MREs and hot coffee. She dumped several packets of sugar in hers before drinking it. The warmth helped, the sugar helped, and once she got the MRE open, that helped too. She got half of it down and then started gagging.

That got Barton’s attention again. “What is it?” He took the tray and sniffed it.

She breathed, and forced herself to swallow. “The food is fine.” Her face grew hot with humiliation. How many of her vulnerabilities was she going to involuntarily expose that day? _Get it together, Romanova._ “The Red Room made us fast two days a week to keep our minds sharp. And to prepare us for going without. Some habits die harder than others.” She would have been able to keep her reaction under control if she weren't already worn down and on edge.

Barton was mercifully silent. He pulled a candy bar from his pocket, awkwardly, with his injured hand, and handed it to her.

She looked from it to him and back to it.

“Sugar, protein, high in calories, less to get down.”

“… thanks.”

The badge that he'd used to get them in had fallen out of his pocket with the candy bar. As he clumsily tried to stuff it back in, it flipped open, and she looked down, curious what had prompted such immediate cooperation from the gate guards. “'Clinton Francis Barton.'” The picture was old, and looked terrible, like all official photos did. Even the Red Room's modifications hadn't saved her from that.

“That's not my middle name.”

“It says so on your badge.”

“It's a typographical error. I don't have a middle name. When I joined S.H.I.E.L.D., the records person insisted I had to have one and then made one up on the spot for me.” He tucked the badge away and zipped his pocket closed.

“Huh.” She worried down half of the candy bar and waited. They both looked up at approaching footsteps, but it was American soldiers, not S.H.I.E.L.D. The woman in front was a lieutenant colonel— she outranked the sergeant. “They said you’d brought Bob Turner in?”

“As far as you’re concerned, the person in this room is nameless and faceless,” Barton said. He hadn’t moved from his sitting position— neither of them had— but Natalia could feel his tension.

“There’s been a mistake,” said the lieutenant colonel. “Bob Turner is an upstanding man and a patriot. He’s one of the best residents of this state.”

“There hasn’t been any mistake, but there might be one about to happen.” Barton stared calmly at the lieutenant colonel. 

She looked angry. “We’re overriding your decision on this. If S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to keep using our facility, they’re going to have to be satisfied. You can’t just go around snatching American citizens into custody without reason.” She looked them up and down, taking in their injuries. “And, frankly, with the rest of your team missing, you’re not in a position to stop us.”

Barton looked at her. She looked back at him. “They think we needed a team?” she asked. Barton’s expression didn’t change from its assumed confusion, but the corners of his eyes crinkled, just a little, in appreciation.

The lieutenant colonel looked confused, and then smug… and then wary, because she wasn’t completely stupid. “You’re it?” 

“That information is need-to-know only.” Barton let smugness of his own leach into his voice. 

The lieutenant colonel had been thrown off her game, and Natalia could tell she didn’t like having to look down at them. That should have made them feel intimidated but it was having the opposite effect. The lieutenant colonel looked between them and the door. She seemed torn. Looking at the two of them, with, apparently, only one rifle and one pistol between them, visibly injured and alone, she made a very stupid decision. “Step aside.” 

“No,” Barton said.

The lieutenant colonel narrowed her eyes. “Arrest them.” 

Barton got leisurely to his feet. The soldiers, who had stepped forward at the lieutenant colonel’s command, hesitated. They, apparently, were not as foolish as the lieutenant colonel, who looked like a well-fed bureaucratic type— well-fed from more payrolls than one, if she was here on Turner’s behalf. Natalia stood, too, and stretched ostentatiously. When her hands came back in front of her, each held a pistol. The soldiers hesitated again. “I gave you an _order_ ,” the lieutenant colonel said, flushing dark red. 

There was a high probability one of the soldiers was going to get shot in the ensuing encounter, if only by friendly fire. Natalia predicted a sudden downturn in good relations between S.H.I.E.L.D. and the US military. 

“Is there a problem?”

The soldiers turned quickly in the direction of the new voice, and their formation shifted enough that she could see the new speaker. She’d never been so glad to see Agent Coulson. He _shouldn’t_ have made any difference to the situation. He was just one man, alone, not visibly armed. Even if they now had the soldiers flanked, they were still outnumbered. But Coulson was standing as if he hadn’t realized that, with the same quiet confidence that had made her label him dangerous in the beginning.

“Who are you?” the lieutenant colonel demanded.

“Agent Coulson, of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

The lieutenant colonel was visibly hesitant. “Your agents have taken a man into custody.”

“I’m aware, Lieutenant Colonel Marson,” Coulson said. He was too far away to read the lieutenant colonel’s name tape. This fact was not lost on Marson. “Is there a problem?”

Marson stared at him, and then, _finally_ , some slight awareness that she was out of her depth penetrated her head. “No. There’s no problem.”

“Good.” Coulson motioned. A squad of S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers appeared around the corner. There were more of them than there were of the Americans, and they were more heavily armed. The mortification on the lieutenant colonel’s face cheered Natalia after a long, _long_ hard day. The Americans stood aside and let the S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers pass. 

Barton unlocked the storeroom, and the S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers took Turner, Lewis, and the safe to the waiting helicopter. She and Barton brought up the rear in case the lieutenant colonel had a change of heart. As they waited for the soldiers to secure Turner and Lewis inside the helicopter, she handed over the papers she’d taken from Turner’s desk.

“You seem to like property damage, Ms. Romanova,” Coulson said.

“I use the tools I need.” Besides, half of the explosions had been Barton's.

He gave her an unreadable glance— unreadable because he was wearing sunglasses, in the dark— and turned to Barton. “Do either of you need medical attention before we return to base?”

“No,” they chorused. 

She followed Barton to the back of the helicopter, where there was some space, and where they could keep an eye on Turner and Lewis. Just in case. He was S.H.I.E.L.D.’s responsibility now, but if they lost him after all she’d gone through to get him, Natalia was going to be… displeased. Barton would probably feel the same way.

She didn’t even realize she’d fallen asleep until they were landing and she woke up. She had a splitting headache, probably from leaning her head against the side of the helicopter. The soldiers offloaded Turner and Lewis first. Then Coulson sent them off with orders to get patched up and cleaned up, and come back for a debriefing, even though it was the middle of the night. She skipped the med bay in favor of the supplies she’d stashed in her room. Coulson looked at her disapprovingly when she walked into the conference room. “Those don’t look like standard issue S.H.I.E.L.D. medical supplies, Ms. Romanova.”

How did he know the difference on sight? She’d have to steal them directly from the med bay next time. “No?” she said neutrally, and took the chair across from Barton. He’d gotten the authorized edition of patching up: his fingers were splinted and wrapped in a new bandage, and both of his arms were bandaged. Coulson also had coffee— strong and black— so she forgave him his pointed question.

The debriefing was quick and without incident. At the end, Barton stumbled off, yawning widely, but Coulson had her stay. She sat down again, watching him carefully.

“Our report came back on Scruggs Lewis. Barton asked us to determine when the two of you met.”

“Yes?”

“December 2000. New York City.”

She considered the least revealing way to phrase her question and finally gave up. “What happened there?”

“He was at a business meeting. You snuck in as a caterer and assassinated his colleague.”

She had absolutely no recollection of that. One day she needed to sit down with a calendar and a diary and pin down when exactly these damn gaps in her memory covered. And then have several stiff drinks. “That was six years ago. He still recognized me?”

“We found a blurry security photo that appears to be you. Your hair was the same style and color as it is now.”

“Bad coincidence,” she muttered.

“Well done, Ms. Romanova. You’re dismissed.”

*

Coulson called him back the next day for another debriefing. He wasn’t surprised, since it had happened after the Canada mission, too. He didn't have much to add, but he filled Coulson in on the stuff that he and Romanova hadn't thought important in the middle of the night.

“You like her, don’t you?” Coulson said when he was done.

It was a quick change of subject meant to catch him off guard, but it didn’t work. “Romanova, sir?”

“Yes.”

Clint considered. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I think I do.”

“Why?” Coulson looked mildly pained. “She’s a loner. A killing machine, and we’re not sure she’s entirely sane.”

“Because she’s a loner, a killing machine, and we’re not sure she’s entirely sane.”

Coulson looked even more pained. It wasn’t often he could put that look on Coulson’s face. But Coulson knew as well as he did that Romanova wasn’t the only assassin those words applied to.

“So why do _you_ like her, sir?” Clint asked.

Coulson looked like he was going to try to deny it, again. Then he changed his mind. “She’s efficient. And creative. And professional. And highly competent. It’s a pleasure to work with her. At least on my end.” He looked at Clint inquiringly. 

He shrugged. “No argument from me.”

“That is, when she’s not causing massive property damage.”

“Aw, sir, you only say that because you care.”

“Go away, Barton.”

Clint smiled more cheerfully. “Yes, sir.”


	5. North Carolina

When he got to his next briefing, there were a full thirty agents sitting down or helping themselves to coffee and donuts, and Coulson was up front waiting for everyone to get there. That was good. Coulson’s missions were usually interesting, and even the boring ones had a higher probability of going south than normal boring missions. Coulson was talented; he was the big guns. They didn’t pull him out for just anything.

He got some donuts, stuffed some more in his pockets, and sat in the back row. More agents trickled in; the clock clicked over to 8 sharp before the last two arrived. Coulson looked at them mildly, and they immediately dropped into the first seat available. Clint scanned the assembled agents and tried to guess the mission from the group: some soldiers that he recognized; some other snipers; at least one hacker; Woo; Sitwell, Coulson’s latest duckling; and a bunch of people he didn’t know. 

“Last month the Ten Rings established a listening outpost in Athens,” Coulson began without preamble. “We don’t think they’ve gotten much so far, and they haven’t had time to dig themselves in and become entrenched like the eastern branches. We’re going to take them alive, and we’re going to take all their data intact.”

He showed a picture of a tall building. “This is the apartment complex we’re targeting. It’s in a wealthy part of town, great for eavesdropping on politicians and dignitaries. They have the top floor, and our intel indicates they've heavily fortified it. We think there's one set of explosives wired to their hard drives and their server, which goes off if the system detects a breach of the firewall. The other is wired throughout the apartment. It's strong enough to take the top off the building, and heavily damage the adjacent buildings.” He paused. “Both sets of explosives can be detonated remotely. We don't have room for error on this mission.”

That prompted soft murmurs from the audience. “We've discovered the frequency on which they signal the bombs,” Coulson continued. “Their equipment is shielded from jamming, but a special laser should be able to knock out the receiver. There is exactly one place in the surrounding area from which the receiver is visible.” He brought up a map, with two red circles, and then a picture of a woman. “This is Ashley Simmons, a foreign national from England working in Athens. She’s our mark. Her apartment just barely looks into the Ten Rings base. Agent Barton, you’ll get into her apartment and make the shot.” He caught Clint’s eye briefly; Clint nodded once. “We can’t risk spooking them, so you’ll take the laser in mounted on a pistol. A rifle would be too conspicuous.”

“As soon as we’ve verified that the bomb cannot be remotely triggered, we’ll move in. My team will have the perimeter and the roof. That includes all the snipers except for Barton. Our priority is containment. This is a heavily populated civilian area and we need to keep the fight bottled up. Agent Woo, your team will storm the apartment. You’ll be equipped with tranquilizer darts in addition to your normal weapons. Take the targets alive if at all possible. Only shoot to kill if they try to trigger the bomb manually or take civilian hostages.” He looked around the room, catching each agent’s eye in turn. “Any questions at this point?”

No one responded. Coulson started the longer, more detailed briefing. Sometimes briefings for large missions would separate out by task forces, but for something this sensitive, everyone needed all the information. Clint and the other snipers studied the map intently as Coulson pointed out everyone's positions. Then he started going through the timetable, giving detailed instructions about how they were all going to get into place without tipping off the Ten Rings. “— Barton will return with the mark to her apartment,” he was saying.

 _What?_ Clint put his hand up. 

Coulson acknowledged him with a nod. 

“Define ‘with the mark,’ sir.”

There were muffled titters from the front of the room.

“Whatever way you can gain her trust and get inside without alarming her,” Coulson said calmly. He waited a beat, but Clint didn’t ask a follow-up question. He didn’t have one. He had an argument.

He was half-distracted for the rest of the briefing. When it finally broke up, a bunch of agents crowded forward with questions. Clint stayed where he was, fingers laced behind his head. He waited until almost everyone had trickled out, and the last questioners were talking with Sitwell. Coulson gathered his notes, said a few words to Sitwell, and headed for the door. Clint fell into step beside him. “Sir, why can’t I just _break in_ to her apartment?”

“It’s too dangerous,” Coulson said. “This is a listening post. They have ears on everything in the vicinity. If you trip Simmons’ alarm system, they’ll know about it. If a neighbor sees you and calls the police, they’ll know about it.”

“So I’ll be careful not to trip it. I’ve done this before, Coulson.”

“It comes down to whether you’re willing to bet civilian lives on your ability to defeat the alarm and stay out of sight, neither of which are your primary skill set.”

There wasn’t anything Clint could say to that. 

“If we do it your way and it goes wrong, the whole building could go up. If we go with the plan and it goes wrong, we’ll just call it off. We’ll know before we spook the targets.” They walked a few paces. “This is the closest we’ve gotten to the Ten Rings in six months. It could go very well for us. Or it could go terribly.”

“What if it goes wrong and the targets know the signal came from the mark’s apartment?”

“We have measures in place to cover that eventuality.”

“What if Simmons is working for the Ten Rings?”

“We looked into that. We don’t think she is. _If_ she is, once you shut off the bomb relay, any warning she gives them will be unfortunate, but not a critical threat to the mission.”

Clint tried desperately to think of another argument. “I don’t speak Greek.”

Coulson gave him a patient look. “She’s English, Barton.”

“Sir, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

Coulson stopped in the corridor so he could face Clint. “You’re the only agent in S.H.I.E.L.D. who could possibly make that shot, Clint. All you have to do is get inside the apartment, and knock out the relay before she can raise any alarm.”

Clint digested this.

“You know S.H.I.E.L.D. has a policy—“

“Yes, thanks, I’m aware.”

“If you can’t do this, then we’ll scrub the mission,” Coulson said. “Do you want us to do that?”

 _Jesus_. Coulson couldn’t be all “international terrorists, biggest break in six months” and then offer to scrub the mission. It wasn’t that Clint thought he was insincere, it was that he knew Coulson _would_ call off the mission. “No. I’ll... do it.”

Coulson nodded once. “I’ll have Intel get you Ms. Simmons’ schedule and her movements over the last two weeks so you can plan an accidental encounter. And R &D will get you the gun so you can practice.”

“Thanks,” Clint muttered.

He went down to the range and practiced with a handgun that was the same model as the one he'd be shooting. He didn’t like guns, and he was never as confident in his ability to shoot one as he was his bow. Guns were just _different_ ; they took a mental effort that was completely different from a bow. It was kind of like the difference between taming a wild horse that kicked, and riding one you’d known for years.

When he'd had enough, he went back to his little room to ransack his drawers for suitable civilian clothes. Most of what he owned was in an apartment, or a safe house. While he was figuring out the most painless way to get something appropriate, someone knocked on the door-- probably R&D with the gun. He opened it, and found Romanova there.

“… hi.” He stepped back, confused. He hadn’t been keeping up with her whereabouts but he certainly hadn’t expected her _here_.

She leaned against the door frame. “I heard you got stuck with seduction detail.”

Oh, God, they were calling it _that?_ And frequently enough that she'd _heard_? He stepped back again-- and Romanova straightened up, moving a few inches into the hall. It was a small shift, but he noticed it. She’d stepped out of his exit.

He eyed her. “Yeah.”

“Have you ever done a mission like that before?”

This was not going in a reassuring direction. “No…”

“Would you like me to walk you through it?”

He felt himself tense.

She raised one careful eyebrow. “I am _not_. Offering a demonstration.”

As if he— “I already know where babies come from, thanks,” he snapped.

“Oh, were you going to let things get to that point?”

“Did you come to mock me?” he demanded.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I came to offer you advice. If you want it.”

“Oh.” He deflated. “You, uh. Want to come in?”

He sat on the end of the bed and let Romanova have his one chair. She straddled it and rested her arms on the top. “Have you ever picked anyone up at a club before?”

“No.” Why did he have the feeling that this conversation was going to get _more_ painful before it got better?

She eyed him. “Have you ever _been_ to a club before?”

“Yeah.” For S.H.I.E.L.D., not for fun, but that didn’t matter— he was pretty sure she didn’t go clubbing in her spare time, either.

“Do you know how to dance?”

He gave her a Look. “I was a circus-trained acrobat, I think I can figure it out.”

She quirked an eyebrow at that, just for a moment. “If you don’t want to dance, watch her dance. Don’t stare constantly, don’t leer, but let her see you watching. Look away and watch some other women occasionally, but always come back to her.”

“Okay.”

“When she stops dancing, don’t pounce on her, but do buy her a drink. Tell her she looked like she was having a good time. Ask her if she comes there a lot. Tell her it’s your first time, but it seems like a nice place and you might come back. Don’t make it obvious that you’re talking about her. You’re going for subtlety here.”

“Subtlety.”

“Yeah, don’t tell her how nice her tits are or how hot she is.”

“… got… it.”

“You want to be a step above the kind of hookup you usually find in a nightclub. Chat her up. If she’s not too drunk— and she shouldn’t be at that hour— ask intelligent questions. Make it clear you’re interested in her, but don’t come on too strong. You want to start turning the conversation to longer exchanges, the kind you can’t hear well in clubs. Ask her if she wants to step outside for some air. If she says yes, buy her another drink first.”

“You seem knowledgeable.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any idea how many jobs I've pulled that started in a club? I have an encyclopedic knowledge of bad pickup lines.”

“Fair enough.” She’d probably heard damn near every one in the book, with the work she did.

She continued to walk him through his hypothetical meeting-- which she could do, because she'd been on the other side so many times. What was that like, to weaponize yourself, your body, and not once but over and over again? To assume someone else’s character so entirely that your own preferences became irrelevant, and you knew how your character would respond to any situation? 

“Have some condoms on you. I doubt she’ll ask, but it’s an important detail.”

“Right.”

“I took a look at her apartment’s floor plan—“

“Who let you see that?”

“Agent Coulson.”

“Did Coulson _send_ you?” Oh God, just when he thought this whole situation couldn’t be any more humiliating.

“No. I told him I thought I’d been in the neighborhood before.”

He relaxed.

“— the window you need is in her kitchen.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll need to distract her somehow. Or restrain her.” Her voice went flat. “Don’t knock her out. She’ll wake up wondering what happened while she was out.”

“… right.”

“How’s your cover story coming?”

“It’s coming.”

“It’s important to have details, but it’s just as important to know when not to give them. Don’t spill your life story to anyone who looks at you. If you start talking about your childhood flower garden, you won’t sound authentic, you’ll sound weird.”

“Okay.” He studied her. Was what he felt now what she’d felt the first time? Or what she felt every time? Had she ever wanted to do this any more than he did? “Do you just… look at someone and see how to take them apart?”

“Basically.”

“All the time?”

She shrugged. “I can turn it off.”

Slowly, he nodded. What did she see when she looked at _him_? “Thanks.” 

“Good luck, Barton.” She stood and replaced the chair. She saw the book on the table. He wanted to tell her to leave it alone, but she’d just done him a favor. She flipped open the cover. “ _Ottoman Empire and Early Modern Europe_?”

“Didn’t have much of an education. Been trying to catch up.”

“Hmm,” she said, glancing up. “Neither did I.” She looked back at the book. “You have a library card for Columbia University?”

“I borrowed Coulson’s.” With permission, even.

“Ah.” She tilted her head. “How do you choose? What to study.”

He shrugged. “Had a mentor who was a bit of a history buff.” He kept his voice light. “He got me curious enough that I wanted to learn the real stories behind the things he said.”

“Just history?”

“No. Whatever… whatever catches my eye. If I can follow it with putting it down and picking it up again. Not a lot of time for reading with this job.”

She snorted. “Yeah. I know how that goes.” She hesitated a minute, as if she wanted to say something more, and then left.

*

He managed to find the right clothes, find the right nightclub, find Simmons, and remember enough Greek to buy her drinks. Expats were a minority there, and she seemed pleased to find someone else who wasn't a native. He successfully managed to detach her from the dance floor and steer her to a relatively quiet corner, feeling all the time like he was wearing a suit of clothes that itched. 

They stepped outside and shared a cigarette, passing it back and forth. “Where’re you staying?”

“Hostel on the other side of town.”

She gave him a nakedly appraising look. Then she stepped into his space. Then she pushed him up against the wall of the building and kissed him. It wasn’t that he was _bad_ at that, it was just— something he could ignore for as long as it took to get the mission done. He rested his hands on her hips, then slid them up to her lower back. 

“I have a place not too far away,” she murmured against his mouth. She was sliding her hands down his hips-- oh, shit, what if she found his gun-- he forced himself to stay relaxed. He'd deliberately stashed it out of the way, he just needed to be careful.

Years in the men’s locker room, and with an all-male band of mercenaries before that, had given him a wonderful vocabulary of innuendo and terrible lines about sex, but he didn’t think any of it was actually suitable to picking up a real, mature _adult_. He kissed the edge of her jaw. “Just so we're clear, was that an invitation?” he murmured. “I'd hate to start an international incident.”

She was tipsy enough to think that was funnier than it really was, which made his job easier. “ _Oh_ , yeah. Let's establish diplomatic... relations.” She tugged him gently into the street. “Cab.”

They made out in the back of the cab. He was preoccupied with keeping her hands from wandering to his holster. Luckily, _she_ was preoccupied with feeling up his chest and arms-- hey, at least he had one thing going for him-- and it was a short ride. By the time he paid the driver, she already had the front door open, and was calling the elevator. He tried to plan his next move. If he just barricaded himself in the kitchen, would she have time to call the police before he could take the shot? His heartbeat slowed when they made it through her front door, because he’d gotten inside, now all he had to do was—

“You’re here for my neighbors, aren’t you?”

 _SHIT SHIT SHIT_. He blinked. “… you say that to all the guys you bring home? Didn’t realize I was signing up for a threesome.”

She gave him an amused glance. “The creepy ones across the street? With the weird blinking box in the corner of their room that looks a lot like a bomb? Who have the entire floor and are either the world’s most obsessed peeping toms or, um, bad guys?”

“Uhhhhh. Uh, no, but it sounds like we should draw the blinds. Unless you're, you know, into that,” he offered gamely.

She kept on like he hadn't said anything, which meant he was being about as convincing as the circus's perpetually-drunk fortune teller. “I saw some guys in uniforms vanishing around a corner when I was on my way to the club. And you—“ She looked him up and down. “New to that club. Short hair, muscular, callused hands. Homed in on me even though there were at least six hotter and richer women there. Military? CIA?”

“I, uh...” She wasn't buying it at all. _Oh, fuck. FUCK._ He gave up, and resisted burying his head in his hands. Or fleeing for the other side of the world and never ever speaking to anyone who knew him, again. That didn't actually sound too bad. “Sort of.”

“I didn't get a job conducting delicate international trade negotiations by being stupid, you know.”

“Clearly.”

“My best friend's dad was in the Cabinet when we were kids. I saw a lot of MI-5 agents. The type's obvious.” She shrugged. “I'm glad you're getting rid of them. They're sketchy as fuck. Just… do whatever you came to do.” 

_Oh, God_. This was, quite possibly, the most mortifying experience he'd ever had. _Why couldn't it have been just shooting things_. “Turn the lights off. I need your kitchen.”

He crouched at the window, listening for any indication that she was sneaking up on him, or warning the terrorists. He didn't see anyone in the apartment across the way, but he saw the relay. Barely. He took out the pistol, checked it, and tapped his earpiece. “Boss, I was made, but I'm in position. Clear?”

“Clear.” Coulson sounded pained. Clint didn't have a lot of sympathy. _Would you like to switch places?_ “Just take the shot, quickly.”

He lined it up, and breathed in and out. It wasn’t like a bow, you didn’t need to breathe as you shot, but it helped him. His focus narrowed to the gun and the relay. He pulled the trigger.

“Relay is down,” Coulson said in his ear. “Repeat, relay is down. Alpha Team, go.”

Clint exhaled, relieved. He untwisted the laser from the pistol, turning it into a functional weapon, and checked his back. Simmons was still in the living room. He seriously considered going out the window so he didn't have to pass her. No, better not give away his position like that.

She raised her eyebrows when he appeared in the doorway. “That was it?”

“Stay away from the windows and keep your head down.” If he got up to the roof, he could give Alpha Team some more cover. He paused at the outside doorway. “Why'd you bring me back if you knew?”

“You're hot. I might have been wrong. Or you might have had some free time.” She looked up at him. “You in town long?”

“Uh, no.”

“I doubt I’ll sleep, with all the excitement. Feel free to knock on your way back down.”

“… stay… safe.” He bolted for the door, and the relative simplicity of a firefight.

*

S.H.I.E.L.D. took three of the four Ten Rings members alive and all their drives and files intact. Coulson was pleased. Fury was pleased. It was good for morale. Just being done with the mission was enough for Clint’s morale.

“Sir, I think we’ve established that this is _not_ my strength,” he told Coulson at the first opportunity.

Coulson didn’t say anything, which meant he was trying to tactfully agree.

“How did I even— whose bright—“ He swallowed the end of that, because the answer was probably _Coulson_ , and tried again. “Why was I picked for that mission in the first place?”

“I needed someone who could make that shot, and Medical had flagged you for light duty until your fingers are fully healed.”

Clint couldn’t argue with part of that. He really, really did not want to permanently screw up his hand. “Can’t you have me babysit recruits or something next time?”

Coulson stared at him.

“Or whatever.” He wished he’d shut up while he was ahead. He wasn’t _whining_. He just didn’t want to keep doing things he was terrible at.

“Beef up your skills for defeating electronic countermeasures,” Coulson said finally. “Next time, maybe breaking and entering will be a viable route.”

“Sir,” Clint said dutifully. Then: “What next?”

“You’re on leave.”

“ _What?_ ”

“It’s not a _punishment_ , Barton. Most agents don’t treat surprise vacation as the plague.”

Clint eyed him warily. “I'm not most agents.”

“I happen to know you’ve taken exactly two vacations in your life. Go. Go somewhere fun. Rest your hand.”

“‘Fun,’” Clint repeated.

“Then you’re being sent on another mission with Ms. Romanova. Briefing’s at 0800, one week from today at Leonard Wood.”

“Yes, sir.”

*

Natalia was still in limbo, at the American fort. With two successful missions behind her now, as well as disabling the homicidal robot, S.H.I.E.L.D. was treating her with a little less suspicion. Which meant that her escort were disguised as passersby and just _happened_ to show up whenever she left her room. Why did they even bother? They'd let her off the leash, and she'd come back, twice.

She started going to the mess at the busiest times, because it was an excellent source of information. She blended in with the crowd then, and her escort wasn't so glaringly obvious. Sometimes she “accidentally” lost them on her way out. It was there that she heard someone behind her mention “Director Fury, tomorrow.” Natalia promptly shoved her fork off her tray and onto the ground so she could get a better look at the speaker. Judging by the woman’s suit, she was one of the paper-pushers— even secret supragovernmental espionage organizations had those, apparently. “— scheduling nightmare,” the other woman continued, her mouth full. “Wants to see _everything_.”

 _Everything_ was fairly comprehensive, and scattered across the base. Natalia listened until the woman behind her finished her dinner, picking up what she could about the Director's itinerary. It shouldn’t be hard to arrange an accidental meeting. She didn’t need to talk to the man, but she wanted to watch him. She’d heard of him even before joining S.H.I.E.L.D., and the only people who’d spoken dismissively of him had been too incautious to live long. She wanted information. Fury was competent and dangerous enough that she had a healthy respect for him, even though they'd never met. Not many other people fit that description.

She needn’t have bothered with the subterfuge. The next morning, a squad of soldiers came to get her from her room. The “passersby” were gone; these men and women were very armed and very alert, so it wasn’t hard to guess where they were going. She gave S.H.I.E.L.D. partial credit for sending eight people with assault rifles to guard her. They might have slowed her down for a full five minutes, depending on how well-trained they were at coordinated attacks, and how long it took her to get a weapon away from one of them.

They took her to a room she hadn’t seen before, some sort of command center slash cubicle farm, filled with desks, screens, and lots of computers. Natalia watched the other people in the busy, noisy room. Most of the people coming and going looked like S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, in suits or uniforms, but there were a few that were harder to place, and some that were obviously _out_ of place.

She watched a man leaning against the far wall, and frowned. “Who’s that?”

The soldier nearest to her followed her gaze, and frowned too. “Why do you care?”

“Just answer the question.”

The soldier responded to the command in her tone, probably without even noticing. “Someone from NATO. He got squeezed into the schedule to meet with Director Fury about sharing weapons technology.”

 _Squeezed in_. “Did he get it?”

The soldier snorted. “Of course not. He must be hanging around hoping for another chance.”

Natalia’s eyes narrowed. If she was right, should she take action? It wasn’t her job. She could look after herself if she had to. On the other hand, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s current leadership had treated her well— what was that saying about the devil you knew? And if she was right, and she did nothing, at some point she might have to either admit that she had stood back, or pretend incompetence.

She started forward. The soldier grabbed her. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?”

“He’s nervous,” Natalia said, hoping it would be enough to keep her escort from making a fuss.

It wasn’t, but it gave her enough time to get halfway across the room before the noise level rose noticeably. The man she was watching looked up quickly; she pretended to be completely ignorant of the eight armed soldiers following behind her, who were probably aiming at her by now. The man turned, and his jacket shifted just so—

She knew she was right.

She dove across the remaining space and put her hand inside his jacket before he could stop her. He grabbed her wrist in a bruising grip and tried to get her hand out again. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

She heard weapons being unsafetied behind her, and let him yank her hand out—

With his gun in it. And its attachment.

“What do you need a silencer for?” She pitched her voice loud enough to carry, and twisted her hand so she was the one doing the gripping.

Behind her, the tenor of the room changed as the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, who were only rather slow and dense, not actually stupid, understood what was going on. Unfortunately, she was between all of them and the would-be assassin. Fortunately, she was better than he was.

Her grip was pinning the man’s arm in place. He threw her forward to dislodge her; she redirected his momentum, and added her own, so they were both moving. He refused to let go. They both fell to the floor. Several things happened at once— a door opened, more men detached themselves from the crowd and headed for the door, and S.H.I.E.L.D. agents bolted forward to head them off.

She twisted so he landed on the bottom. He was good, though, a better fighter than actor. He rolled them and got her pinned, where he’d have the advantage. But with both their hands still grappling for the gun, he had to use his other hand to hold her down. Hers was free. She thrust at his eyes. He instinctively warded off her fingers, releasing her in the process. She surged up and to the left, rolling them again and landing with her knee in his lower stomach. He gasped— she still couldn’t get the gun away from him, not without risking it going off in the crowded room, but she got two good hits in to his solar plexus before he recovered and got his hand around her throat. He shoved her back. Her head hit the wall. With her free hand, she struck at his wrist, an accurate blow that loosened his grip momentarily. She got the grip out of his hand— he grabbed the barrel and shoved backwards— she turned away, but it slammed across her face, and colors exploded across her vision— she was running out of air— but S.H.I.E.L.D. would want this one alive, she couldn’t just kill him— she got both hands on the grip, pulled it down and away from his head, and pulled the trigger. He screamed. His shoulder erupted into a mess of blood and flesh. 

But he didn’t give up— with his good arm, he grabbed for the gun back, and the grip became slippery with blood— she didn’t try to get it away from him, just shoved forward until their combined weight carried her forward into his shoulder— he screamed again, in agony. He paused long enough for her to get her feet under her, but then grabbed her and pulled her down. He had a good grip on the gun this time. She couldn’t hold on, it was too slippery. As it came out of her fingers, she kicked him in the wrist. The gun hit the floor and she kicked it out of reach, hoping that no one else would grab it and use it against her. She was half-supported by the wall— someone’s gun was dangling at her eye level— she grabbed it from its holster, ignoring the protest, and shot the man in the same shoulder before he could get out of the way. This gun wasn’t silenced, and the report deafened her temporarily.

Someone slammed into her from the side, carrying her past the person who’d donated their gun, towards the desks. She turned them so they both collided side-on. Her new opponent recovered more slowly than she did, so she turned them so his back was to the desk, and shoved him down onto it. But he knew how to use leverage, too— he got one leg directly below him for balance and kicked up with the other. She jumped and vaulted onto the desk, keeping the gun out of his reach. He kicked off from the ground and followed her, grabbing at her legs. She stomped on the nearest bit of soft flesh she could reach— she heard someone yelling about a clear shot, but whichever side they were on, they weren’t going to get one at either of them. He twisted out from under her and got to his feet. He was nearly as fast as she was. Who was he? She wanted to keep him alive just to find out. She dodged as he tried to throw her forward, slammed the gun across his temple, shifted her weight, and fell back to a more stable position. He was still reeling from the blow— she grabbed him and flipped him to the ground. He landed hard and was still.

A blur of motion to her left as Agent Coulson— where had he come from?— dispatched one last attacker with a speed she hadn’t expected from him, and then the rest of the room was still, too. There were five attackers down on the ground— she thought they were all alive. She hadn’t heard any other shots besides the two she’d fired. Fat lot of good those assault rifles had done them. But four of her escort appeared to have dropped their rifles and waded into it; they were bruised and bloody. The other four were tying up the assassins.

Just inside the doorway, a tall, imposing, dark-skinned man, with an eyepatch, had his hands on his hips and was staring up at her. She thought this had to be Fury. The agents around him were turned towards him, and the assassins had been waiting for someone important to come through that door. 

Also, he knew her name. “Ms. Romanova,” he said. “Do you think I could have my gun back?”

She glanced down— yes, his holster was empty. She smirked. His eyes narrowed slightly. She pointed the gun at the ceiling and took her fingers off the trigger before anyone could get jumpy. It would have been child’s play to whip it around and point it at him before anyone else could react, but she made an ostentatious show of turning it, grip-first, before she held it out to him. For a minute, he didn’t move— waiting for her to jump down, probably. But it had occurred to her that he wasn’t used to having to look _up_ at people. So she stayed where she was.

He looked at her like he knew exactly what she was doing, stepped forward, and took it from her. Then he stepped back out of easy reach again. He wasn’t stupid, wasn’t making basic amateur mistakes. “How did you know,” he said, watching her carefully, “that they were a threat?”

Medics had arrived. At a sign from Coulson, they moved into the knot of people and started patching up or stabilizing the would-be assassins. “My escort told me they’d come to negotiate with you about weapons tech, and you’d turned them down. Why were they still here? If the meeting was over, why was that one—“ she pointed— “so nervous? And why did he have a silencer?”

“How did you know about the silencer?”

“I saw the outline in his jacket.”

He continued to watch her for a minute. Then: “Come inside.” He disappeared back into the adjacent room.

She jumped down and followed him into the conference room. Agent Coulson came as well, and shut the door in the face of her escort. Fury sat down, indicating the seat across from him. She pulled out the chair and sat, watching him as steadily as he was watching her. Her back was to the door. Was he trying to throw her off-balance?

“Natalia Alianovna Romanova,” he said.

She waited.

“What are you doing here?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Why are you here at S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“Because Agent Barton recruited me.”

Fury’s eyes narrowed. “And what do we have that you want so badly that you were willing to join an organization you killed five members of?”

“Sanity.”

Fury leaned back. “According to Dr. Rosales, you were successfully treated. She says the remaining framework was removed from your head.”

She waited for an actual question.

“You got what you came for, so I repeat: why are you here?”

Ah. He was asking about her loyalty, her motivation. And he expected her to lie. But he wasn’t the only spy who could be blunt. “I have no loyalty to S.H.I.E.L.D. But I pay my debts.”

“What debt is it you think you owe?”

“Agent Coulson says I owe you for the lives of your people,” she said. “I don’t care about that. But you unscrambled my head. And eradicating the Red Room inclines me to think… less ill of S.H.I.E.L.D. than I might otherwise have.”

“You don’t care about the people you killed?”

“Do you know how many people I’ve killed? You expect me to care about the five to whom you had a connection?”

“Do _you_ know how many people you’ve killed?”

“No.”

Fury’s eyes narrowed again as she turned the point of his thrust. “You suborned one of my best agents.”

“To which one are you referring?” she asked blandly.

“Agent Barton.” There was a bit of an edge to his tone now.

 _That’s fucking rich_. She didn’t even _know_ why Barton had spared her. “Is that his interpretation of events?”

Fury didn’t answer. “So what happens, Ms. Romanova, when your debt is paid?”

“That depends on whether anyone else agrees with me, that it’s paid.”

“Give me some possibilities.”

“I could go. Or I could stay.” What happened if she left would be up to S.H.I.E.L.D.

“How do I know you’re not in league with those assassins, and that it wasn’t all an attempt to make you look good?”

“You don’t.” She smiled, an expression that he would not mistake for demure. “But if half the rumors are true, you’re running the world’s largest and best band of spies. Surely you can find out.”

“You might not like our methods.”

“Please don’t insult either of us by pretending you would believe anything that came out of my mouth under torture.”

He leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “I’m curious about something, Ms. Romanova.”

 _I’m sure you’re curious about many things_. She didn’t say it, just raised her eyebrows.

“If you’d rescued your fellow members in the Red Room like you tried to do— what was it, four times?”

 _FUCK you_.

“— would you have been loyal to them?”

“I never got the chance to find out,” she said. “So I suppose we’ll never know.”

He stared at her and let the silence stretch out. She stared back, neither challenging nor cowed. The silence was finally broken when Agent Coulson went to the door and opened it. “Thank you,” he said, to someone outside.

Finally Fury spoke. “If you kill or hurt another S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, I’ll hunt you down myself.”

“If you fuck with me, I’ll kill you myself.”

He extended his hand across the table. She took it, expecting a trap, expecting him to try to apply pressure and literally force her hand as a threat, or a show of authority. His warm, dry hand engulfed hers; she could feel the gun calluses on his palm. “Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Ms. Romanova.” He pumped her hand twice.

“Thank you.” She couldn’t quite keep the wariness out of her voice.

Agent Coulson broke the moment. “Here.” He was holding an ice pack. 

“… thanks.” She took it from him, and held it to her eye. “Ow,” she muttered.

“You’re also bleeding from at least two places that I can see, but I’m not delusional enough to think that sending you to the medbay is anything besides an exercise in futility.” Coulson sounded exasperated.

She smiled at him around the ice pack, even though that made her eye hurt. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

“You are not the only item on my agenda today, Ms. Romanova, so if you could stop baiting Agent Coulson…?” Fury said.

“Certainly,” she said with exaggerated politeness. Coulson looked resigned. He hit the button to open the door, and her audience was done.

*

Something had happened while he was gone. There was new security, and when he saw Coulson in the hall, the other man looked tired. Coulson rarely looked tired even though he worked at all hours. Shit must really have hit the fan.

Then, when he got to the briefing room, Coulson wasn’t even there yet. Romanova was waiting, though. She was slouched in her chair, looking bored, and had a very distinctive black eye. Clint stared at it, trying to figure out what had made the marks, before he gave up and asked: “What happened to you?”

“Assassins.”

His eyebrows went up. “How’d they find you?”

“They weren’t after me.”

She didn’t seem inclined to say more, so he settled in his chair and watched her watch him. 

“How’s the hand?” she asked after a few minutes. 

He held up his left hand. It wasn’t bandaged or splinted any more. It wasn’t completely healed, either, but she didn’t need to know that.

Coulson showed up before the conversation went any farther. He was carrying a cardboard carrier with four cups of coffee. Romanova took one, ignoring the packets of creamer and sugar in the middle. She took her coffee black, he’d noticed— which meant the sugar she’d dumped in her coffee back at Redstone had been a fluke, and he hadn’t called it wrong at all, about her being shaken up.

He claimed his own cup. “Who else are we expecting, sir?”

“No one.”

“Then who’s the fourth cup for?”

“They’re both for me.”

From up close, Coulson looked even worse. Under the bright fluorescent lights, the tiny, telltale signs were easy to see— the lines on his face, the set of his shoulders, the rate at which he blinked. “What happened?”

“Assassins.” 

“How’d—“ He’d already asked that. He drew the line at unwitting participation in Abbott and Costello sketches in his workplace. “Who were they after?”

“Director Fury.”

“… huh.” No wonder Coulson looked exhausted. “And you were there, too?” he asked Romanova. He bet Fury’d been thrilled about _that_.

Apparently, she was thinking the same thing. She smirked. “Oh, yeah.”

“This is a courier mission,” Coulson said, reclaiming their attention. “Barton, Medical still hasn’t cleared you for using that hand in combat except in emergencies. Boredom is not an emergency.”

“The thought had never crossed my mind, sir.” Coulson _was_ tired, if he was preemptively fending off the jokes Clint knew better than to make.

Coulson pulled up a map of North Carolina. “We have a contact in the Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill Research Triangle. She’s a genetics researcher at UNC Chapel Hill, collaborating on a high-profile project with this company, Coleman Pharmaceuticals. Ostensibly, the project is engineering bacteria to clean up a nearby Superfund site.”

“What’s a Superfund site?” Romanova asked.

“It’s the Environmental Protection Agency’s designation for a site contaminated with hazardous substances. Usually as a result of industrial operations, but not always. This particular site is contaminated with heavy metals.”

Barton frowned. “Pharmaceuticals and Superfund? How’d that happen?”

“The site was allegedly caused by their former parent company and predecessor. Coleman is disclaiming responsibility and fighting a lengthy court battle, but they’re funding this project as a ‘gesture of good faith.’ They’ve gotten a lot of good press over it— and they’ve had some promising early results.”

Romanova was frowning.

“You have a question?” Coulson prompted.

“I’m waiting to see where S.H.I.E.L.D. comes into this.”

Coulson nodded. “Our contact has evidence that Coleman is not making what they say they’re making. They _are_ developing bacteria consistent with their early results, but the bulk of their money is going into different strains. They’re putting other genes in the bacteria, that are unnecessary, or even harmful, to their stated purpose. Independently, in the last six months, S.H.I.E.L.D. has discovered that Coleman is quietly sampling conditions at a dozen sites around the world, doing the exact same tests that UNC did at the Superfund site. We think they’re using this project as a cover for a terraforming project.”

Clint frowned. “Terraforming? Why? What’s their angle? Mars?”

“Converting marginal land into productive farmland, or attractive real estate. Or as weapons of biological warfare: the equivalent of sowing your enemy’s fields with salt.” Coulson raised an editorial eyebrow. “As you can imagine, the process is messy, and hard to contain. Among the things Coleman has _not_ done is put any sort of kill switch in the bacteria.”

Romanova looked unimpressed, or maybe disdainful. It was hard to tell the difference. “If you know all this, why haven’t you shut them down?”

“Would _you_ go up against a group with bio-superweapons without getting all the intel you could?”

Romanova shrugged, conceding the point.

“We need hard data to get an idea of what we’re up against, and so our own people can develop countermeasures. Unfortunately, Coleman suspects that someone is leaking information. They have significant surveillance on our contact. And they’re not as stupid as the people the two of you have gone up against so far. Barton— think Moscow.”

Clint winced.

Romanova gave him a curious look, but Coulson continued before she could ask. “They have keyloggers and monitoring software on her work computer and probably her laptop. We had been communicating with her by burner phones—“

“They’re not watching her mail?” Clint asked.

“They are. We were sticking them inside her locker at the gym, but someone broke in there. Luckily, they didn't find anything, but that's no longer a safe delivery method. What we need is for her to be able to get a lot of information out.”

“So I’m picking up a flash drive?” Romanova asked.

Coulson shook his head. “Dropping one off. Our techs made some software that should fool the monitoring on her computer. It’s the equivalent of slicing into security cameras and looping the feed. Once she has that, she’ll be able to package the files and send them to us over a secure network.” He paused. “The last courier we sent didn’t come back.”

Clint raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t often an agent was killed doing something routine as courier work. “Did they get to the target before they were killed?”

“No, which probably saved her life. Our courier was near Coleman’s facility when they caught her, so Coleman doesn’t know who she was trying to reach.”

“And, what, S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn’t get to her in time?” That was one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s marks on the right side of the ledger— they looked after their own, and didn't leave people out to dry if they could possibly help it.

Coulson looked deeply unhappy. “I told you they were good. We didn’t have anyone closer than an hour. By the time reinforcements came, they’d dumped her body in the creek.”

Clint winced.

Coulson pulled up a picture of a woman in her late forties. “This is your target, Dr. Evelyn Cruz. You need to get to her, deliver the drive, and get out again clean. That last part is _crucial_. She cannot be compromised. Abort the mission rather than risk her life. Barton: you’re Romanova’s backup if she needs it, but your primary mission is working up an extraction plan for Cruz. You need to be ready to grab her and get her to safety if Coleman suspects anything is up. Without her data, all we know is what she’s seen.”

Romanova tilted her head. “I could just take out Coleman for you.”

“The entire company?” Coulson looked unimpressed. “Half of their employees are local people just trying to make a living. S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t deal in the lives of the innocent just to show off.”

Romanova shrugged. “Their security, then.”

“What part of ‘don’t attract attention,’ exactly, sounds like ‘assassinate an entire department’? If we shake Coleman up now, we risk tipping them off. The scientists will take their research somewhere else and start over in a year or five years. We have eyes on them now.” Coulson paused, waiting to see if that was sinking in. “ _No_ massive property damage. Stay within the mission parameters.”

Romanova shrugged again. “Fine. Are you asking me to wing it?” She probably had four ideas already.

“No. As soon as Dr. Cruz initially contacted us, we started establishing two cover identities for eventual use at the university. The female one is an undergraduate transfer student from NYU. Your grandmother lives in the area, and she’s sick; you’re taking classes there to be close to her. You’ll be taking the place of one of the genetics department’s usual undergrad employees when she gets sick. That will give you access to Cruz’s office.”

“She works on the campus?”

“All her research is off-site at Coleman, but she’s teaching one class this semester, and she still visits her campus office every few days.”

“Can you get me into her class?”

“No.” Coulson looked regretful. “It’s a small discussion seminar. Coleman leaned on the department not to give her anything as ‘strenuous’ as a lecture. She wouldn’t let you in, and if she did, you’d stand out.”

“How do you know the other woman is going to get sick?” Clint asked suspiciously. S.H.I.E.L.D. did some _creepy things_. “Have you been monitoring her temperature by remote thermal imaging?”

“No. But I’ll keep that in mind for future assignments. No, you’re going to drop a bacterial culture in her coffee. Nothing terrible, just a nice, normal forty-eight-hour stomach virus. She’ll get an unexpected bonus in her next paycheck, enough to cover the lost time. That will be your window, Ms. Romanova. We’ve ensured that you’ll be the first person the department calls as a replacement. Barton can reinfect her if necessary, but that could lead to undesirable complications.”

Clint wasn’t sure if Coulson meant logistics-wise, or the risk of accidentally making this poor girl _really_ sick. Both would have occurred to him.

“How are you going to make sure they choose me?”

“We’ve put your file in the university’s temp employment pool and attached a strong letter of recommendation from your biochemistry professor at NYU. Similar enough field that you’ll be attractive, but different enough that you’ll have an automatic explanation for what you don’t know.”

“Okay.”

“Any questions? After you pull out, we'll clean up the cover identity behind you. Barton, you’ll be on rifles for this mission.”

“Yes, sir. You already said that.”

Neither of them had any questions, so Coulson let them go. Clint hung back and hoped it didn’t look too suspicious to Romanova. He let the door close behind her, then gave her a good five seconds to move down the hall. “Security breach?” he asked.

“Not that we’ve found.”

Oh. No wonder Coulson looked so tired. Judging by the color of Romanova’s eye, the assassination attempt had been at least forty-eight hours before. For a hole that big to stand up to the hardest scrutiny S.H.I.E.L.D. could throw at it for that long— that wasn’t good. “Anything I should know about?”

Coulson shook his head. “Keep your eyes open. And tell me if you see anything unusual.”

“I will.”

“For what it’s worth, Director Fury doesn’t think Romanova was involved. And I think he’s right.”

“That’s good to know.”

“But if they can get to him, they can get to sensitive missions like this. Be careful.”

“I will.” Clint frowned. “If this is so sensitive, why are you giving it to Romanova?” _She could fuck this up brilliantly if she wanted to_ , he did not say, out of consideration for Coulson's nerves.

Coulson looked even more tired. “Our back’s against the wall. So is Dr. Cruz’s. We need someone very good, or we’re risking her life. And Romanova’s one of the best we’ve got right now.”

Clint’s lips twitched. “I bet I know how Upstairs feels about _that_.”

“Gloating would not be appropriate.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

“Barton,” Coulson said when he was at the door.

“Yeah?”

“These aren't just babysitting missions. There aren't many agents who could keep up with Romanova. We’re sending you because you’re _also_ one of the best we’ve got.”

 _Aw._ Clint plastered on a sloppy grin. “Tell me something I don’t know, sir.”

Coulson made shooing motions towards the door.

*

They caught a ride to North Carolina on a cargo plane. The S.H.I.E.L.D. liaison there handed Romanova a set of keys, and him a disassembled sniper rifle. He’d brought his bow, of course, but he wasn’t going to fight Medical’s restrictions. They were usually pretty stupid, but he knew his own body, and knew he needed to give it a rest for a little while longer. Permanently damaging his hands was one of his worst nightmares.

He hoped he never got captured by someone who knew that.

He and Romanova said about fifteen words to each other the entire trip, which was fine with him. She didn’t ask how his last mission had gone, which he appreciated. They reached town in the middle of the afternoon. Setting up a house consistent with Romanova’s cover story would make it too easy to disprove the existence of the sick grandmother later, so they’d stay in a safe house, on the edge of town, and be careful when they came and went. Romanova dyed her hair back to red in the sink, and then went to scout the campus, wearing something colorful and impractical she’d brought from Missouri. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s storerooms were legendary, and a little freaky.

He slipped out the back of the building and headed for Coleman’s campus. It was more heavily guarded than some government security agency buildings he’d seen… or infiltrated. He figured out what he thought was a safe distance and then stayed a hundred feet back from that, watching the place through binoculars. Even for him, it was hard to pick up details at this distance.

He stayed hours after dark. When he got to the apartment, he wasn’t surprised to see that Romanova had beaten him back. She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by plastic bags, methodically weathering a brightly-colored floral handbag.

“There’s food in the fridge.”

He opened the Styrofoam containers— rice, noodles, vegetables, chicken— and saw how much was left. “You have any?”

“Yes.”

“Gonna heat up some. Want more?”

“… sure.” 

He brought a couple of bowls to the table. Romanova stopped what she was doing long enough to grab one. “Any luck?” she asked.

“Think so. Pretty sure they didn’t see me. You?”

“I found the right buildings. Watched the students. Got the supplies I need.” She tilted her head. “They’re so…”

“Young?” he supplied, when she didn’t finish her sentence.

She shrugged. “Some of them are only a year younger than me.”

“Mmm.” Age wasn’t always measured chronologically. He'd been older than most of these college kids by his early teens, and he knew the same was true for Romanova. He remembered watching the teenagers who came to the circus and feeling superior to them, in their mundane little lives where they didn't get to be the lion tamer's assistant or the hotshot archer. He'd felt so much _bigger_ then them. That had lasted until he'd realized that the food and shelter their mundane little lives contained was far more valuable than the cheap, fake glitter of the circus. “So you think you can successfully impersonate one of them?”

She blinked at him, once. “Oh my God, I legit bombed that final.” Her voice was higher and breathier. “Do you think the instructor would bump my grade up if I went to his office and, like, cried? I definitely should not have pre-gamed so hard the night before, not even gonna lie.” She frowned petulantly. “There’s, like, nothing to do in this town. East End rejected my fake last weekend, and the frat parties are all so sketchy.”

It was his turn to blink. “… it was. Mostly a rhetorical question.”

She smiled, and he knew she was Natalia Romanova again, because no college student would smile with that much feral self-satisfaction. She got up and moved a load of clothes from the mini-washer to the dryer.

That was a good point. He looked down at himself. He needed to get close enough to the girl Romanova was replacing to spike her coffee without attracting attention. S.H.I.E.L.D. had given him her schedule, and he had a plan and a backup plan, but he needed to blend well. He was older than most of the students and looked older than he was; he'd have trouble passing as one of them.

Romanova was looking him up and down appraisingly. “Lose the boots, get a different jacket, and you’ll pass as a grad student.”

Not a bad idea. He could find those things in the morning, before he intercepted his target. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Reconnaissance. Going to my classes. Making myself seen on campus.”

“What do they have you taking?”

“Analytical chemistry. And beginning Russian.” There was a hint of surliness in her voice.

He repressed his amusement. “Flip you for the bed.”

“I’ll take the couch.”

“The springs are broken.”

“I know. But you need your beauty sleep.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, but there was a suspicious depth at one corner of her mouth that looked like a proto-smirk.

He didn’t dignify that with a direct response. “It’s a big bed. Want half?” That couldn’t be any more dangerous then sleeping in a car she was driving, could it?

“No.”

“Fine.” He checked the camera feeds, made sure no one was poking around, and went to sleep.

*

She got the clothes the dryer: Natalie Cooper’s wardrobe was high-maintenance, but she had enough things clean and dry for the next two days. That should be enough time. 

Her first day of school. How… lovely.

Her bag looked sufficiently well-used. What did she need in order to blend? She put in sunglasses, some notebooks, a battered textbook, Natalie’s makeup bag, a couple of tampons, a granola bar, some breath mints, some body spray, Natalie’s pocketbook, and the burner phone she was using for this cover. Then she double-checked the locks. Barton was already asleep, apparently; the bedroom was dark, and if she listened carefully, she could hear that his quiet breathing was slow and deep.

It would be child’s play to slit his throat. Didn’t he ever worry about that? Or was she so transparent that he was sure she didn’t want to?

She didn’t actually want to scare him. But she didn’t want to be an open book, either. It was hard to avoid giving things away to someone who saw so well.

She checked the monitors and satisfied herself that no one was trying to sneak up on them. She tried the couch for about thirty seconds and abandoned that idea. Her pain tolerance was very high, but she wasn’t going to sleep on something that would screw up her back unless she had to, any more than she would submerge her gun in a sink full of water unless she had to. Instead she grabbed the bedding and stretched out on the floor. It was thick with dust and stank of feet— what had S.H.I.E.L.D. been _doing_ here, holding espionage dance parties? It still didn’t crack the top half of the worst places she’d ever slept. She fell asleep quickly.

— and woke, stifling a gasp, with her heart racing.

She didn’t remember the dream. She hadn’t moved, she could tell that from the state of the bedding, or called out— she had better control than that. But she felt like she’d just base jumped off the Space Needle again, and her clothes were soaked with sweat. She took deep breaths until she got her heart rate under control. In, out, out. In, out, out. Slowly, she relaxed and settled back on the floor. Her throat was raw, her nose was stuffy, and she had a terrible headache. If only she could get away from this damned dust—

She grabbed the blanket and stood in the doorway to the bedroom, considering. Barton apparently was a very light sleeper; after a minute he stirred, opened his eyes, and shifted to the far edge of the bed.

She took one step inside and stopped. It was just _dust_ , surely she could— but her head was pounding with a ferocity she’d rarely experienced before. “If you touch me, I’ll--”

 _Break your other hand_ , she was going to say. She thought about how Barton had gone up against her and faced her down, calm and steady as a rock. She thought about how he’d taken on a band of mercenaries five times their number with no trace of fear. She thought about how the only time she’d ever seen him shaken was over broken fingers.

It would be an effective threat.

A person’s limits defined them.

“— don’t touch me.”

“Okay.” He sounded like he was half-asleep already. What the hell _was_ it with him?

She moved to the edge of the bed and stood there. Barton didn’t seem to care that she was standing over him while he had his eyes closed and his back to her. His breathing was slow and deep again. Carefully, she stretched out on the very edge of the bed; it barely shifted under her weight. She wrapped herself in the blanket. The bed was much less dusty. She could breathe more easily. She fell asleep—

Sort of.

She dozed for a while, unable or unwilling to enter a deep sleep. She didn’t know much about who Natalia Romanova was, but she knew Natalia Romanova had never shared a bed with anyone. She could have become any one of a dozen people who would have been comfortable here, but she stubbornly stayed Natalia. Natalia… Natalia _mattered_.

 _This is ridiculous fucking shit._ She got up and grabbed the blanket and pillow off the bed.

“I’ll _take_ the damned floor--” Barton mumbled, sounding exasperated.

“Go back to sleep, Barton.” She lined the bathtub with the blanket and lay there awkwardly. It was cold and cramped, but there was no dust, or deep existential questions about her own identity. She fell asleep…

“Uh….”

What _now?_ She’d barely— no, it was morning, wasn’t it. Mostly. And Barton was on his way to stake out the coffee shop. She dragged herself out of the bathtub and brushed past him in the doorway. “I’m done sleeping, take the bed,” he called after her.

Her skin and her muscles were chilled from the fiberglass. She took the side that was still warm and made herself sleep for a solid hour. Barton was gone by the time she woke again. She showered, splashing around plenty of the highly scented shampoo and body wash that Natalie liked, and put on her tight jeans, flowing blouse, stubby boots, and jacket. After cold leftovers for breakfast, she found the nearest secondhand store and bought a large monster of a vacuum cleaner. She took it back to the apartment and headed to campus on a circuitous route. When she was satisfied no one had followed her, she got coffee and settled down on a bench across from the genetics building to watch who came and went.

“Package delivered,” Barton reported in her ear. It was still early enough in the morning that the flu would have plenty of time to incubate. By late tonight, the other woman would be sick enough to call in.

She spent the rest of the day on campus, watching everything and establishing her cover. She suffered through a lecture of beginning Russian. After the first five minutes, she opened her laptop and surfed Facebook, getting enough of an idea of what was going on on campus that she could make small talk about it. Then she found a crash course in biochemistry and read through it. After the painful lecture was over, she reviewed other resources, until she was confident she could pass as a biochemist to a bunch of biologists. As long as she didn’t run into any _actual_ biochemists, she’d be fine. Then she read up on Dr. Cruz’s work.

*

Barton wasn’t at the apartment when she got back, but piled on the couch were a messenger bag, a beat-up jacket with patches at the elbow, and some thick-rimmed glasses lensed with plain glass. She poked through the messenger bag: a couple of notebooks and a tattered copy of _Ovid’s Metamorphosis_. At least Barton wasn’t completely ignorant of how details made any cover convincing.

She vacuumed the floor. When she was done, it still smelled like feet, but at least she could breathe. Barton showed up; she relaxed her grip on her gun when she saw he was alone. He dumped his bag on the floor, and a box of pizza on the table.

She stared at him. “You went inside a _restaurant_?”

“Hole in the wall. No cameras. Waited for a crowd. No one’ll remember me.”

She grudgingly admitted he knew what he was doing. “There’s a sandwich in the fridge.”

“‘kay.” He dropped a couple paper plates on the table. “Productive day?”

“Fine. Yours?”

“Dropped the colony, staked out Coleman. I can grab Cruz and get out in three minutes flat if necessary.”

“How’re you going to manage that?”

“Coulson didn’t tell _me_ to avoid massive property damage.” When his head reemerged from the refrigerator, he looked smug. “If I have to grab the doc, it’s because we’re already blown.” He put the sandwich and a slice of pizza side by side on his plate, and shoved the box towards her. “Did Coulson give you a S.H.I.E.L.D. credit card?”

She’d already eaten, but she took a slice and sat down at the table. “Why?”

“Because a lotta students are piss-poor, and pickpocketing them is a poor choice.”

“He gave me cash.” Most of the students had looked fairly wealthy. Did Barton care that much about the ones who weren’t? 

She opened her laptop and pulled up the floor plan of the genetics department again. Barton glanced up, and then did a double-take at her laptop. She smirked: she’d decorated it accordingly after taking the pulse of campus. There was a pink floral motif around the edges, a giant peace sign, a sticker saying “Tired of all the Bushit,” and a sticker advertising a fair-trade, organic coffee shop in Brooklyn.

“How did you even _get_ that one?” he asked around a mouthful of pizza.

“I’m very good at what I do.”

“If you’re s’posed to be from New York, why are you dressing like everyone else here?”

“I’m blending.” Most people wouldn’t think it through to the extent Barton had, and if they did, they’d write her off as just unhip.

She took another bite and frowned at the floor plan. Barton muttered something unintelligible. She looked at him over the screen and raised one eyebrow. “Come again?”

He swallowed. “I said, what’s wrong?”

She sat back in her chair and considered how to answer. “Your and my priority for this mission is Dr. Cruz’s safety.”

He nodded once, waiting for her to continue.

“That’s, uh… not what I usually deal with.”

“You have a plan yet?” he asked after a minute.

“I’m trying to decide whether breaking into her office or faking a distraction would be better.”

“Want me to take a look?”

She eyed him. “For sight lines?”

“I do do other things besides snipe. I’ve led missions.”

She pushed the laptop towards him. He wiped his hand on his pants and scrolled through the plans, studying them with an intensity she recognized from watching him work. That same stare would have been focused on her, once, from behind his bow, or along the shaft of an arrow. How close _had_ he come to actually shooting her?

“What kind of security do they have on the office?”

“There’s a camera in the hallway that conveniently covers her door. It looks new. There are others in the building, but they’re different styles, and older. I don’t know when Dr. Cruz was last there, but judging from the dirt outside her door and the cleaning schedule I saw, _someone’s_ been in there since her last set of office hours. There could be a hidden camera inside her office, and her window looks out over a large quad— it wouldn’t be hard to stake out. The light from the hallway would be visible as soon as you opened the door.” She shook her head. “She’s bound to have a lot of books in there— any of them could conceal a hidden camera, and I wouldn't know which one was out of place.”

“And if they’re good at what they do, it wouldn’t be. I would go with the distraction.”

After a minute, she nodded. “Yeah.” The ideal distraction would lure Dr. Cruz out of her office, and away from the fields of view of the cameras, while not implicating Natalie. She’d seen into some of the labs as she “wandered aimlessly” through the building... “I think I have something.”

“Are you expecting her tomorrow?”

“Yes. She has office hours.”

“I’ll let you know when she leaves the facility.”

“Thanks.”

“Can I borrow this? I want to work up a plan for grabbing her from this building. Just in case.”

“Sure.”

She was done for the day; sleeping would be the logical thing to do. But she watched Barton work and take absentminded bites of pizza. He didn’t even notice when the last one was gone, and nearly bit his own fingers. She could see that he was flipping between the floor plans, and various images pulled from the Internet.

Finally he pushed the laptop back towards her. “Thanks.”

“What are you expecting in return?”

“We’ve already had this conversation.”

“And I told you I didn’t believe you.”

“They say that insanity is doing the same thing twice and expecting different results.”

“We’d already established that I’m crazy. What are you expecting from me?”

“Natalia.” His stare was hyperfocused on her now. “I do not expect anything from you.”

“You’re lying.”

He threw up his hands and slouched back in his chair. “Then, if _you_ know so much about the inside of my brain, _you_ tell me what I expect from you, ‘cause I sure as hell don’t know.”

It was possible he was telling the truth. S.H.I.E.L.D. had been very professional towards her, besides the one agent who had tried to kill her. They called her by her _name_ , and not any of the of sexist shit she'd been called by other employers. Besides Dr. Rosales, Barton, just now, was the first person to even use her first name. A lot of the men she'd met at S.H.I.E.L.D. looked, but no one tried to do more than look. 

But if he was telling the truth, then why was he so irritated each time she brought it up?

He pushed back from the table, grabbed another piece of pizza, and stuffed it into his pocket. “I made my plan. You want the bed tonight?”

“No.”

“Without me, I mean.”

“I was aware. No.”

“Fine.” He went to sleep. Natalia moved the table to one side, and did what stretches and strength exercises the narrow space would accommodate. Then she stretched out on the floor and went to sleep, too.

*

She heard Barton moving around while it was still very early. He was being quiet; was he trying not to wake her? That was… considerate, if a futile effort. She heard him open the refrigerator, check the monitors, and leave. She took the bed and dozed for another hour, until faint light showed around the thick curtains. Then she showered, had cold pizza for breakfast, made tea with a stale teabag, and waited for the phone to ring. As she waited, she ran through her contingency plans in case the department didn’t call her.

“Cruz leaving the house for Coleman,” Barton reported in her ear.

“Copy.”

Finally, around 8:30, Natalie’s phone buzzed. She let it ring twice, then answered it, sounding groggy. “H’llo?”

“Hello, is this Natalie Cooper?” The man on the other end had a strong accent, and was speaking quickly.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Sorry to wake you, Miss Cooper. This is John Tucker, administrative coordinator for the genetics department. The university’s job center sent us over your file. Are you still available for temp work?”

She faked being more awake. “Yes.”

“Can you come in today? Our regular student assistant became ill very suddenly, and we’re in the middle of a crunch preparing the fall departmental dinner. It’s fine if you have class, as long as you can come in for at least four hours.”

“Yes, that’s no problem.” She put on Natalie’s ‘I’m definitely a responsible adult’ voice, and made sure her faint Brooklyn accent was firmly in place. “I can be there within the hour.”

“Oh good, good… it says in your file you have experience with advanced database management?”

“Yes.” That wasn’t a lie. Natalia had worked as a data input specialist in Hrodna for three weeks before shooting her boss in the server closet.

“Great. We can put you to work pulling the information for the guest list. Do you know where the department is located?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, when you get here, just come to the main office and we’ll get you set up. Thanks again, Miss Cooper.”

“No problem.”

In keeping with her role of sleep-deprived student woken early, she grabbed a large coffee and a bagel on her way. As soon as she got in, Tucker put her to work collating a list of people to invite based on their past attendance at the dinner. He didn’t even check her ID to make sure she was really Natalie Cooper. Whoever in the department was running point on security for Coleman, it certainly wasn’t him.

And whoever had done the first part of this project was incompetent; she got it sorted out in about half an hour. Her desk made a good place to watch who came and went through the front door, but she needed to get into the rest of the building. She looked at a package that had just come in. “Dr. Crindlen is upstairs, right? I met my friend there after she had office hours with him.”

Tucker glanced up, looking harassed. “Yes, would you? When do you have to leave?”

“I don’t have any class today.” At Tucker’s surprised look, she explained, “I actually transferred down here to be closer to my grandmother. I’m taking a light load so I have time to look after her.”

“Oh, I see. Well, we don’t want to get in the way of your family obligations, but whatever time you can give us until our regular assistant is healthy again, we’d love to have you.”

She smiled at him. “Sure.” She grabbed a cart for the box.

On the way down, a boy of about twenty got on with another empty cart. It took maneuvering to get them both inside the elevator, and she arranged it so they were standing next to each other.

“Hey, you’re new.” 

She looked up to see him regarding her with a faint smile. “Yeah, I’m just a temp, I’m filling in until the regular girl’s better.”

He frowned. “That’s weird, she looked fine yesterday.”

“I, uh… they didn’t really tell me anything.”

“I hope she’s not too sick. She’s been planning that big rally for Darfur since the semester started, and it’s next week. Are you going to that?”

“I saw one of the flyers— it’s a Thursday, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I have to pick my grandmother up from the doctor, but I was thinking of going if I get back in time.”

“Cool.” He extended his hand. “I’m Andy, Andy Barnes.”

She shook it. “Natalie Cooper.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No, I transferred from NYC. I have family in the area.”

“Wow. The Big Apple, huh?” He held the door while she dragged her cart off the elevator.

“Yep.”

“Listen, Bethie, that’s the usual assistant, usually helps me with my colonies in the afternoon. Do you know anything about mice?”

“No, but I’m a quick study.”

“Will you be here after lunch? I hate to spring this on you, but I have this exam tomorrow and I wasn’t expecting to have to go through three labs’ worth of colonies alone…”

“No, sure, it’s no problem. Just come and get me, whenever. I’ll just be having fun with the database.”

“Sure thing. Thanks, Natalie.”

After she returned the cart, she triaged the rest of Natalie’s list, and managed to get most of it done by the time Tucker stood, stretched, and announced that he was going for lunch. “Do you want anything?”

“No, I’ll just run next door when I’m done.”

He looked over her shoulder. That made Natalia tense, but Natalie was a naïve and carefree young woman who had no idea it was dangerous to let someone stand in your blind spot, so she gave no indication of Natalia’s unease. “You’re fast,” he said. “Have you done admin work before? You must have, right, for the databases?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Would you be interested in a more permanent position?”

Natalie demurred politely. “I’d hate to put your regular person out of a job.”

“Oh, she wouldn’t be out of a job. But she, she might be a better fit somewhere else, really. She’s an English major, you know… and what’s your major?”

“Biochemistry.”

“Biochemistry, that’s right. You certainly have a well-organized, analytical mind.” He straightened up and clapped her on the shoulder. “Think about it.”

“Oh—“ she called after him. “One of the students asked me to help with his colonies, he said, the normal girl usually does it?”

“Andy. Yes, feel free to help with that.”

She gave him five minutes to get out of the building. Then she grabbed a folder that would give her a plausible reason to be in his office, slipped inside, and jiggled the mouse to see if he’d logged out. He hadn’t. She didn’t know where to look, but she wanted anything and everything about Coleman’s involvement in the department. There: the ‘Budget’ folder, with the subfolder ‘2006-2007.’ This was expenditures, not intake, and there wasn’t anything out of place— except the absence of a line item for security equipment, in the maintenance subsection. She found the file with corporate donations. They’d been negligible until two years ago, mostly food donated for student events; now there was a large sum labelled “Cash donations, other.” So that was how Coleman had gotten the department to turn a blind eye to anything they did with, or _to_ , Dr. Cruz. 

Still no sign of Tucker. She found the personnel files, and opened them all to deflect attention from her real target, in case someone looked at the logs later. Dr. Cruz had been reprimanded recently for ‘unprofessional behavior,’ but the note was short, and read like it had been written against the better judgement of the reprimander. She checked the files for the people with offices near Dr. Cruz. Interesting: a visiting professor from Georgia Tech, Dr. Melanie Samson, had the office three doors down. There was a note in her file about the “unusual duration” of her tenure at the university, with a line about following up with her official status since visiting professorships usually only lasted a year. Dr. Samson was in her fifth semester, and had arrived shortly after Dr. Cruz had started working with Coleman.

She checked the rest of the computer for anything useful. Then she returned everything to the way she’d found it, used her sleeve to wipe the mouse clean, and went back to her desk. Natalia didn’t bother getting Natalie lunch. Physiologically speaking, Natalie was Natalia, and Natalia could miss a lot more than one meal. Instead, she finished up Natalie’s tasks, leaving a few loose ends so it wouldn’t be obvious she was done. 

Tucker came back. “No lunch yet?”

“I’m not very hungry. I had a granola bar.”

“I hope you’re not coming down with what Bethie has. Odd, though, I haven’t heard about anything going around. I hope it wasn’t food poisoning.”

“Yes,” Natalie agreed sincerely. Natalia started working on things that were two weeks out on Bethie’s to-do list. Maybe the department should send its admin assistants to assassin school. It would do wonders for their productivity.

“Cruz is leaving Coleman,” Barton said in her ear. “In current traffic, she should be there in about thirty minutes.”

Natalie tucked her hair behind her ear; Natalia tapped the earpiece twice to acknowledge. The Coleman facility was a quarter mile from the nearest highway, and the research buildings were on the far side. Did Barton think there was anything strange at all about being able to judge traffic conditions from a quarter mile away?

She poked around the files on the computer she was using, but there wasn’t anything useful there. She could slip the flash drive into Cruz’s mail, but there was no guarantee that the doctor would open it without being observed. She could find an excuse to look at her paperwork and convince Tucker that there was a discrepancy that needed to be rectified, but if Cruz only had a few hours on campus, she’d probably want to take care of it another time.

Barnes showed up before she had to invent an excuse to leave the office. “Hey, is this a good time?”

“Sure.” She closed out her ‘work,’ told Tucker she was leaving, and followed Barnes downstairs. 

“Cruz is in her office,” Barton reported as they entered the basement. “I’m covering her.”

She tapped her earpiece to acknowledge. She could guess Barton’s position, but if something went wrong, his first priority was to grab Cruz, not give her, Natalia, backup. That was fine; she was used to working alone. Other people were never as predictable as yourself, much less as trustworthy. She did have to admit, Barton had never let her down when he’d been watching her back.

Yet.

Barnes opened a locked door with his ID. “We need to grab the cages down here and take them to the third floor. The colonies have been having a lot of infections lately, so we’ve been switching ‘em all out to fresh, sterilized cages.” He grabbed a cart from the side of the room and stacked cages as he worked. “Gotta switch out the food and water, too. It’s a pain— the newer cages, you don’t have to open the door to do any of that, but these old ones we have to use while we sterilize the others, there’s no roof hatch. So we gotta work in the containment chamber upstairs, on the third floor. If these things ever got out, all hell would break loose.” He stacked a final cage on top of the pile. “You ever worked with mice before?”

“Uh, no. I’ve, uh, never done any animal work. You seem pretty familiar with it, though.”

“They’ve got a lot of stuff around here,” he said, calling the elevator. “Mice. Rats. Fruit flies. Scorpions— that one might be up your alley, actually, they’re looking at potential applications of the toxin.”

Natalie shuddered theatrically. “Tell me you’re not the guy who has to milk the scorpions.”

“Nope.” His grin was wicked. “That’s what freshman are for.”

Natalia felt an unexpected and disconcerting stab of sympathy for the mice when she saw them all lined up in their cages, helpless little experimental subjects. She ruthlessly pushed it away. _You better not be getting fucking sentimental over_ mice _, Romanova._ God, if she could relate to rodents, maybe she was even more screwed up than she’d thought.

Her job was to prep fresh food and water containers and put them in the empty cages, which Barnes then filled with mice. “Where are these going?” she asked, examining the cages closely when his back was turned. The older cages weren’t as well constructed as the new ones, and she could see spots where the soldering was thin.

“Uh, Dr. Giovanni’s lab. The other side of the floor.”

That was, conveniently, past Cruz’s office. As she reached for an unopened bag of food, Natalie accidentally brushed against him, and Natalia relieved him of his keys. He was too distracted with transferring the mice to notice. She unlocked two of the cages they’d already finished, then returned the keys when she made up the next set of water containers. Then she took one of her knives and stuck the point inside the lock, twisting until the mechanism was bent. It would close, but it wouldn’t catch. She repeated with the other.

“Okay, the lab’s just around the corner, it won’t take long to deliver these,” Barnes said. “Do you have a lot of stuff left to do downstairs?”

“Oh, no,” Natalia said. Natalie helpfully scooted ahead to get the door. They headed down the hall, reached the corner with Dr. Cruz’s office, and passed it, turning down the corridor without the security camera. Presumably this was why Dr. Samson had her office here, as an extra set of eyes for Coleman. Natalia could deal with that. Brains were never as reliable as cameras.

She tripped and fell into Barnes’s space. He leaned out of the way to avoid a collision, and bumped the cart, hard. The cages bounced, two of them falling— one of them the one she’d doctored. The door flew open. Mice scattered in all directions.

Barnes uttered a wordless cry of surprise-horror-anguish and dropped to his knees, fruitlessly scooping up mice into his shirt. Natalie grabbed for the cage to close the door, but in the process, knocked off the other sabotaged cage. “Don’t _step_ on them!” Barnes wailed. Natalie helpfully froze.

“What the hell is going on out here?” someone demanded from behind them. She looked over her shoulder as Evelyn Cruz came out of her office, glaring irately, with a confused undergraduate looking over her shoulder. “Andy Barnes, what have you _done_?”

“I don’t _know_ , I locked the cages!” He looked up at Natalie. “You saw them! They were locked, weren’t they?”

“Yes, I saw you lock them,” Natalie agreed with perfect truth. 

“And my keys are in my pocket—“ Andy patted it— “no one else could possibly have—“ He made an abortive gesture like he wanted to run his hands through his hair, then stopped, because his hands were holding his shirt-pouch full of mice closed.

Dr. Cruz came forward, hands on her hips. Doors were opening down the corridor. Dr. Samson’s was one of them, and she was watching the scene, but the cart was between her and Natalia. “There’s one!” Natalie said, and scooted forward on her knees, stopping just short of Dr. Cruz. As she lunged across the tile with her left hand outstretched, she palmed the flash drive with her right and slipped it into Dr. Cruz’s shoe in passing. She pulled back to a more balanced position, mouse in hand, and saw Dr. Cruz’s eyebrows twitch very slightly before her face resumed its stern expression. 

“Are those the mice from the containment chamber?” another researcher was demanding. “Is that the isogenic line? That took months to set up! Fuck!” He started down the hall. “What the hell, why didn’t you lock the cages?!”

“I _did_ ,” Barnes insisted, still valiantly trying to catch mice.

“He did, I saw him,” Natalie agreed. She put her recaptured mouse in one of the open cages, which Barnes had tipped on its back to avoid further escape, and tried to close the door. The lock wouldn’t catch. She frowned. “Hey, this won’t stay closed.”

“Are those the older cages? I _told_ facilities they were inadequate—“ said a fourth scientist, coming forward. Dr. Cruz had returned to her office. After a moment, Dr. Samson closed her door, too. “If we’d had adequate supplies, this never would have happened.”

Her earpiece beeped. “Whatever you did has stirred up a lot of activity,” Barton said. “Can you get clear?”

She brushed her hair back and tapped the earpiece three times to let him know she’d received the message. 

“Look,” Andy said, trying his key. “It locks, but it doesn’t actually catch. The lock’s defective.”

“It must have been the stress of the autoclave,” said the scientist who was on her soapbox about the defective cages. “I _said_ that the older, thinner cages weren’t built to stand up to that heat. And now look!” She threw up her hands.

The third researcher had joined Andy bent over the cages. “These really are fucked up,” he said after a minute. “Guess it’s not your fault.” He shook his head. “Fuck, this is a nightmare. We’re going to have to get exterminators into the whole building to kill all the ones who escaped. And house the rest somewhere else until the poison dissipates.” He shook his head again. “I’m going to write to the manufacturer. You’d better get John to send out a mass email.”

Andy put the last mice in the cage, looking subdued.

“I’m sorry,” Natalie offered.

He shook his head. “No, it’s not your fault,” he said. “And thanks for backing me up back there. Just— holy _shit_.”

They walked by Dr. Samson’s office; the door was ajar. “I can’t believe they would sell cages that were faulty like that,” Natalie said. Natalia made sure she enunciated to be understandable through the door.

“Aaaah,” Andy said, ruffling his hair now that his hands were free. “Oh, man. The professors are going to take it out of that manufacturer in blood, if they can.”

Her earpiece beeped again. “You gotta get out of there now, we gotta go,” Barton said.

They were at the door of the lab who was supposed to receive the colonies. Natalia foresaw a lengthy explanation. Natalie grabbed her phone. “Oh— oh, shit, I gotta go get my grandma.”

“Problem?” Andy asked.

“No— she’s fine— but I gotta, uh, hospital. She’s done with her tests.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll finish up here. Hey, it was nice to meet you.”

“Same!” she called as she hurried towards the stairs.

She grabbed Natalie’s bag from the front office and gave Tucker a slightly more detailed explanation. He waved her out the door. She made it outside the building, and just like that, Natalie Cooper was gone.

*

One thing he liked about Romanova was her professionalism. He told her to get out of there, and that was all she needed— she didn’t ask questions.

He watched her get clear of the building, and kept watching to make sure the Coleman employees he’d noticed lurking around didn’t pay any attention to her. Then he wriggled down backwards from his perch, made sure both of his guns were out of sight, and headed for the car.

It wasn’t hard to guess Romanova’s route. She didn’t hear him coming— as he swerved out of a side street and pulled up next to her, she grabbed for what he guessed was a weapon while still managing to look innocuous, which was pretty talented of her. “Did you deliver the—“

“Yes.” 

He peeled away from the curb doing forty. “Trouble?” she asked.

“Maybe.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. No sign of the Coleman people. “If you can make yourself look less like Natalie Cooper, that would be good. Here.” He shrugged out of his jacket and handed it over.

He concentrated on getting them to the highway without picking up a tail. Romanova turned her shirt inside out, put on the jacket, took off her makeup, and cut the bottom four inches off her hair with a sharp knife. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Coleman showed up on campus. I don’t know if I didn’t get away as clean as I thought, or what. It was about ten minutes before you stirred the pot, so it wasn’t that.” He checked the mirror again. _There. Damn it, how did they—_ “They might have seen me. If they see you with me, and recognize you, they’ll suspect Cruz right away. But I didn’t want to leave you in the wind in case they started checking up on her.” He got a mile past a not-well-hidden state trooper, and accelerated. “They’re definitely behind us now. I can lose them once we get farther.”

That was a little optimistic. The sky darkened with a storm, and he still couldn’t shake the car that was hanging back at what would have been the edge of a normal person’s vision. “Did you call it in?” Romanova asked.

“Yeah.”

She glanced up at the sky, which was an ominous grey, flipped on the radio, and searched until she found the weather. “—severe thunderstorm, possibility of hail and tornadoes, high winds, flash flooding.”

“Did you know about this?” she asked.

“Didn’t think we’d be in such a hurry to get out of town,” he said. “But it should help us. As the visibility gets worse, it’ll be easier to lose them.”

It started to rain, hard. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Romanova contemplating him. “I’ve seen how you drive. Who _are_ these people you can’t lose?”

“Coleman security. I think they found the car while I was staked out watching Cruz— though I parked it a mile off their facility. I think they got a real good look at it.”

“Do you think they could have planted a tracker?”

“I looked for one. And I asked S.H.I.E.L.D. to scan for a signal coming off the car. They’re just good. Or lucky.” He pulled off suddenly, barely making the exit, zoomed around the ramp, and made a sharp left onto the first street. He turned at random down a series of smaller and smaller roads before he found what he was looking for: a thick copse of trees. He pulled down the hill and under the dense branches, got it turned around, and killed the lights. “Get down.”

She unbuckled and crouched in the foot well, a gun in each hand. “If they saw you at Coleman, and they saw you on campus, Cruz is already in trouble.”

He shook his head. “I think they were coming to campus to look for me, but they never found me. They didn’t pick up our tail again until we were almost out of town.” He watched carefully through the downpour. Any pursuers would have been silhouetted on the road above. Five minutes passed, then ten. No one came. “I think we’re clear.” As he drove up the muddy slope back to the road, he heard small hail hitting the roof of the car. He had a general idea where they were and where the highway was, and headed in the right direction as the winds picked up, lashing the car with rain.

When they made it back to the highway, there were cars that had pulled off to the side to ride out the storm. Clint wasn’t worried, not yet; he’d driven through far worse. He saw Romanova glance at him, but she didn’t say anything. She seemed to trust him, this far, at least. He appreciated that—

“Shit!”

Romanova stiffened, and turned. “What is it? Are they back?”

It wasn’t surprising that she couldn’t see; they were pretty far back. “Think so. Can’t be sure.” They must have gone on down the highway when Clint had lost them, and waited for him to pass by. “If I get close enough to find out for sure, they’ll see you.” If he dropped her off somewhere to hide and went back to ID them, they could take the opportunity to tail Romanova and catch her alone. She could probably kill them easily, but they’d be staking Dr. Cruz’s life on her ability to do so before they got off any kind of a message. And any death would make Coleman even more suspicious.

It was getting hard for him to see. He reluctantly dropped below eighty miles an hour, squinting out at the watery gloom. The sun was going to set soon, making things even worse. There were fewer cars on the road now— that was good, because it meant fewer to potentially hit, but bad, because it meant fewer chances to lose themselves in the crowd.

His phone buzzed. He looked down. “It’s Coulson. He must want to talk to us both.” He passed it to her— he wouldn’t dream of ever doing something so reckless as talking on the phone while driving. She put it on speaker.

“Agent Barton.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is Ms. Romanova with you?”

“Yes,” she said. 

“Tell me about the mission.”

“I delivered the flash drive. I think I got away clean.”

“Good,” Coulson said. “You need to get under cover. There’s a massive storm heading your way. S.H.I.E.L.D. is suspending all non-emergency operations in the area.”

“We’ve already hit it,” Clint said.

“No, you haven’t. That’s just the fringes.”

He glanced over at Romanova. She looked worried, too.

“Sir, we’re trying to shake some pursuit. They caught up with me at Coleman and this weather is making it hard to lose them. If they see Romanova’s with me, they’ll know we were targeting Cruz.”

“Shouldn’t the weather make it _easier_ to lose them?”

“Easier to lose them, harder to be sure.”

“If we lose you off a cliff and they see your corpses together, they'll also know we were targeting Cruz,” Coulson said. “Get off the road and get under some cover. I’ll make that an order if I have to.”

“Yes, sir.” Clint saved his sigh until after Romanova hung up the phone.

Romanova dug under the seat and took out the atlas. “There’s not much around,” she said, after a moment’s scrutiny by the light of her phone. “No towns big enough to really hide in for at least two hours.”

“You don’t need a big town to hide in the mountains. There’s nooks and crannies people go two inches past and never notice.”

“The people who live there notice. Coleman probably has a lot of pull in this area.”

She had a point. He glanced over at the atlas, in case he’d mistaken where they were— but he hadn’t. He’d known exactly where they were ever since they’d left Chapel Hill, and in the back of his mind the whole time had been their location relative to a particular valley. He stared at Romanova, then ahead at the road. This was too much. It wasn’t a fair thing to ask of him. The notion of 'fair' was laughable when you were a spy, but, dammit, he didn't ask _much_ , why couldn't he have just this one thing that was his?

The sound of the radio came through the noise of the rain: “… widespread flooding in the valleys, particularly Greenhorn, Oaktop, Reminiscence, New Caledonia…” The list went on. “We’re also getting scattered reports of mudslides caused by all the rain. The National Weather Service is advising everyone to stay indoors and off the roads.”

“If you have a cranny in mind, now would be a good time to head there,” Romanova said.

He stared at her again, then back at the road. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. _Well, fuck_. “I know a place.”

The dim light grew even fainter as the sun set, but he didn’t need to see well to find where they were going. He had to consciously keep his shoulders from keeping up and his jaw from clenching. _FUCK_.

His efforts didn't fool Romanova, though. Of course they didn’t. “Is there a problem?” she finally asked, after minutes of conspicuously watching him.

“No.”

“Then why do you look like you just shot the Pope?”

He snorted. “Romanova, do I want to know why you know what people look like when they’ve just shot the Pope?” In his peripheral vision, he saw her smirk, and she didn’t press the point.

He found the right path, just barely wide enough for the car. To the left was a five hundred foot drop to the rocks below. If he lost control, they would die. They drove two miles, up and up, until he finally stopped behind a rock outcropping. “It’s on foot from here.” It was going to be nasty going in the rain, but they didn’t have much choice.

Romanova grabbed her stuff and followed him. He left his bag in the car; he had stuff at the top. He heard her trip a couple of times, and when he looked back, she was already soaked and spattered with mud. “How can you even _see_?” she demanded.

He smirked. “I’m Hawkeye.”

“At this rate, we’ll be climbing the cliff face,” she grumbled a few minutes later.

He thought it was wiser not to respond.

Unfortunately, that did not get past her. “ _Barton_.”

“Only for the last bit.”

Five minutes more brought them to the bottom of the rock face. Romanova stared. “You have a place up _there_.”

“We’re only going halfway.”

“I don’t suppose you have harnesses?”

“Sure I do. They’re either up there, or in my car.”

Romanova looked back the way they’d come.

“ _My_ car,” he repeated. It was hidden not too far from here, but too far to hike out and back in the storm. “There are handholds. They’re painted grey to blend in.”

“You go first,” she said. “I don’t want to fall on you.”

That was a good idea; he could show her the handholds at the same time. “Give me your bag.” He was more used to climbing than she was— he thought— and definitely more used to this climb. And he was dressed for it.

She took off her boots and socks and stuffed them into the bag, then handed it over. He winced in sympathy, but she was right— she could grip better with her toes than with those weird stubby boots. He jumped and grabbed the first handhold, and tried not to think about what was going to happen once they reached the top. 

He heard Romanova swearing fluently in Russian beneath him. “You okay?” he called.

“Fucking fantastic!” she called back. “How much farther?”

“Twenty feet!”

He reached the top, threw the bag over, and scrambled over the rocky lip. Romanova was about six feet down. He took the opportunity to fish out the keys while she was distracted; she might not be trying to kill him, but he sure didn’t want her knowing which pocket he kept the important stuff in. Then he gave her a hand up. “Not much longer,” he said. “Want your shoes back?”

“It’d be like spitting in the ocean at this point.”

He couldn’t argue with that. He led her around the edge of the narrow rock shelf, and through the trees. Then they emerged into the small field, with its scattered groves of trees— and the cabin. “Wait here,” he said. He circled the cabin, and made sure nothing was out of place. Then he unlocked it and stepped carefully inside. It smelled musty, the way it always did when he first came back, which was one reason he always felt at home in old libraries. It only took a second to check the whole thing. He did another round just to be sure. Then, when he couldn't put it off any longer, he went to the door and waved Romanova inside.

She didn’t seem angry that he’d made her wait; if anything, she looked like she approved. He slid the sturdy deadbolts home, and breathed a little easier. Only a little, though, because he’d just locked someone else in with him. He flipped on one LED. “Sink’s in the back right, blankets are in the big chest, socks are in the top drawer in the back left, take my clothes if you need to.” He tried to be brisk and businesslike about it. “Batteries are charged, but who knows how long this storm will last, so we gotta conserve power.”

“You’re on solar here?” She headed into the bathroom.

“Yeah.” He flipped open the control panel and checked the readout. They should be okay for a while, at least. He turned on the pump, and heard Romanova run the tap a minute later.

He ducked into the little alcove with his bed, changed his soaked clothes for dry ones, and hung the wet ones on the chairs. Then he crouched by the fireplace and got busy with the fire. “Is that safe?” Romanova asked from behind him.

“The storm will hide the smoke.”

He heard her rummaging through the bag— pretty thoroughly. He hadn’t opened it, but he didn’t think the flimsy cloth had kept out the rain very well. “Back there,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the direction of the dresser.

He got the fire lit and headed into the kitchen to start some water heating. “Tea or coffee?” he called. Maybe if he kept busy doing… domestic… things, he wouldn’t have time to be uneasy.

“Tea!” she called.

He heard her fumbling around in the back alcove as he sat on the couch, staring mournfully at the back wall. There was the best bow he’d ever built, a beautiful recurve, unstrung and mounted on the wall. Around it were other bows, and there were quivers stacked neatly in one corner. Bows, arrows, and books— he had basically everything he needed, here. Had had, at least. Even Coulson didn't know this place existed. 

Romanova came out and pulled on the two pairs of socks she was carrying. He could see her observing, subtly, and wanted to tell her she shouldn’t bother with the subterfuge, but he was too tired and heartsick to make the effort. It wasn't like it mattered whether she was obvious about it, or not. Either way, she was still seeing all the details of the most personal place he'd ever had. He poured the hot water into two mugs and handed her one. Then he pulled a blanket out for himself and tossed another on the couch. “You warming up?”

“Yeah.” She wrapped her fingers around the mug, and looked around. “How did you get all this up the cliff?”

“In pieces, mostly.”

“You _built_ this?”

How _else_ did she think it had gotten here? “Yeah.” After a minute, he shrugged. “There’s another road, the high road, that starts by the cliff and winds down. I brought a few things in that way. But it’s pretty inaccessible— washes out with rain, blocked by snow, prone to landslides. Usually have to dig it out if I want to use it.”

“It’s impressive.”

“The tea okay?”

She took a sip. “Yes, thanks.”

The fire was going nicely now. He needed something to keep him busy or he was going to start fidgeting. “You want food?”

She looked up. “Do you want me to get it?”

“No.” He didn’t want her to poke around the cabin any more than she had to. “Stay there and warm up.”

He pulled open the trapdoor in the kitchen floor and grabbed a couple of venison steaks from the shelves. He started them frying, and glanced into the big room: Romanova was sitting cross-legged on the floor, cleaning her guns. That wasn’t a bad idea. He hadn’t fired his, but they’d gotten wet. He put them, unloaded, on the table so he’d remember to do it later. There was a pile of broken things that needed fixing on the table, too; he hadn’t gotten to them the last time he’d been here.

The food was done. He brought the plates to the narrow table. Romanova took her first bite hesitantly, but she didn’t look like she thought he was trying to poison her. She frowned. “What is this?”

“Venison.”

“Did you hunt—“

“Yeah.”

“It’s good.”

“Thanks.”

They ate in silence. After they were done, he settled against the wall with the things that needed fixing. Romanova stretched out on the couch, with a blanket over her and another folded under her head as a pillow. “You know how to tend a fire?” he asked. He didn’t want to wake her if she was asleep when he was finished, just to explain.

She actually took the effort to sit up and give him an _oh, please_ look over the back of the couch. He snorted.

“Should we keep a watch?” she asked a moment later.

“Do you think we need one?”

“I don’t know the area.”

“The place is pretty inaccessible. Road’ll be washed out by now.”

“What if someone came up before it was impassable?”

He kind of admired her attention to detail. “They’d have to have been here for hours, outside. No one knew we were coming. No one knows this place is here.” At least, they hadn’t.

“Okay. We’ll go with that.”

“You can have the bed if you want,” he offered a few minutes later. “Or we can flip a coin.”

“Take the bed. It’s your home.”

So she’d noticed that, had she. Well, he’d _never_ thought she was stupid, and it was kind of hard to miss that this place was more than a bolthole. “Fine.”

She settled down into sleep or at least stillness, but he wasn’t ready for that. He mended one of the spare harnesses that was getting thin. The light from the fire was dim, but his eyes were up to the challenge. When he finished the harness, he still didn’t feel like sleeping, but the rest of the pile didn’t look appealing, either. Besides, if he was going to have to burn this place, there wasn’t much point.

It wasn't that it was Romanova, in particular, but some things were just private, okay, and this was one of them. His work was messy and occasionally horrifying; this place was meant to be separate from all that, where he could leave Agent Barton behind and just be Clint. But now Romanova knew about it. And when they went back to S.H.I.E.L.D., she would take back with her a little part of his Clint-life in her head, everything she'd seen and heard. That life stayed hidden away in the mountains for a reason. It was too soft to survive in a world of spies and assassinations.

Well, short of murder, there was nothing he could do about it now. He picked up the book he’d been reading the last time he was here and stretched his legs out, sinking down along the wall. That was what he liked about this place: it was peacefully, utterly, still, even with Romanova there. It was kind of uncanny, how easy it was to forget she was there at all. He couldn’t even hear her breathing. He sat up to see over the couch and make sure she _was_ breathing, then settled back down again. The fire started to die down; the flickering shadows on the wall were soothing and hypnotic—

Romanova slid off the couch and crouched on the floor in one smooth motion. He watched her, frowning, as she stayed completely still. Then she went to the window and looked out. Her shoulders were tense.

“Problem?--”

— He tracked her turn and her reach at the same time, so that by the time she was facing him, the gun in her hand didn’t surprise him, and he was already sliding behind the couch. There was a knife under the couch, a bit awkward to throw but— _Never surprise an assassin—_ then— _How did she forget I was there_ — then— _priorities, Barton_ — then— he popped up over the back of the couch, aware that it might well be the last stupid thing he ever did, but he needed to _see_ —

Romanova was already turning the gun up, away from him. “Sorry. Sorry, I’m— sorry,” she said. 

He got a good look at her. The fact that she'd just pointed a gun at him took a back seat to something more alarming-- she looked terrified. He’d never seen her look like that before. He didn’t want to think about what could make her, of all people, look like that.

He released his grip on the knife and stood up, slowly, hands in sight in front of his body. “No one’s hurt, it’s fine.” Even in the dim light, he could see her pulse jumping in her throat. “What’s wrong?”

*

_They’re here._

She woke paralyzed with fear. She was held down with— no. She recognized her surroundings. She was in Barton’s cabin in the mountains.

She forced herself into motion and went to the window. They could be anywhere, out there, in the dark and the rain. They could be right up against the wall and she would never know until it was too late.

“Problem?”

She spun, gun already out. Barton dove behind the nearest piece of furniture— she realized her mistake, and put both her hands up, pointing the gun at the ceiling and taking her finger off the trigger. “Sorry. Sorry, I’m— sorry.” She felt kind of shitty. She could tell well enough that this was some kind of sanctuary for him, and she’d just accidentally threatened him in it.

“No one’s hurt, it’s fine.” He stood up slowly. She remembered their very first meeting: _We’re going to make a bunch of slow, calm movements so no one gets shot_. She’d never met anyone who combined Barton’s capacity for deep calm and stillness with his near-instant responses. Most people who could react as fast as he could were, deep down, nervous or terrified of something. She would know. So what made him different? Or what was he terrified of?

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to say _Nothing_ , and realized that that was such an obvious lie she didn’t even want to try. She hesitated.

“Did you see something out there?” He came around the couch, still moving slowly and carefully. After all, she was still holding the gun.

She scanned the rest of the room, which she should have done as soon as she’d woken up— if she had, she wouldn’t have made such an embarrassing mistake. _They_ weren’t concealed anywhere within her line of sight, though she could think of at least four places she couldn’t see. “No. It’s nothing.”

He obviously wasn’t buying that, but he didn’t press it directly. “Lemme have a look?” He joined her at the window, staring intently out.

“There’s nothing out there. I didn’t see anything.”

He turned, his sharp gaze focusing on her. “Nightmare?”

How to explain a feeling like that, complete certainty that They were there to drag her back to the Red Room? She hadn’t dreamed that— or if she had, she didn’t remember. “Something like that.”

“You wanna t—“

“No.”

“Okay.” He looked her up and down, briefly. “You gonna be okay?”

 _Fuck._ “I’m _fine_.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he agreed with sarcasm she deserved. “I’m’nna sleep. Try not to shoot me before I wake up.”

“I’ll do my best.”

He shoved a pile of stuff out of the way and shuffled towards the curtain.

“Hey, Barton.”

He turned. “Yeah?”

She hesitated. _What if my sadistic former employers show up? Are you sure we’re safe up here? What if—_ “Do you have a rifle?”

He tilted his head. “I, uh, I’m gonna amend that to try not to shoot _anything_ before I wake up.”

She crossed her arms.

He pointed to a drawer. “In there.” He eyed her for a moment, then stumbled behind the curtain. She heard the creak of wood and then the _thump_ of his body landing on the bed. She’d seen the alcove, when she’d gone to the dresser— it didn’t surprise her that even his bed was at a normal person’s head height.

She opened the drawer and took out the rifle pieces. Assembling them required concentration, and distracted her from the terror that was fading slowly. Every piece was in excellent condition, which didn’t surprise her. It almost looked brand new, but if she stared hard, she could make out marks of use. Barton had painstakingly, thoroughly cleaned it afterwards. She worked quickly and methodically, and was satisfied when she had a high-powered weapon in her hands a few moments later.

Bullets were at the back of the drawer. Before she loaded them, she lifted the rifle, getting a feel for its shape and heft, and pointed it at the door. She clicked the safety off. It was stiff, tuned for someone with strong hands, but moved crisply once she applied enough force.

“Don’t shoot my wall!” Barton called.

“I thought you were sleeping,” she called back.

“I’m _trying_.” There was a pause. Then she heard the _thunk_ as he landed on the floor. He pushed back the curtain and crossed his arms. “Look, whatever’s going on in your head, I can respect that you want to deal with it alone, but if you’re gonna be going crazy in my living room, I’d like to know about it.”

 _Ah, hell_. She turned her head quickly to stare at him. “What if I don’t want to tell you?” she demanded. “Will you make me?”

He stared back. “I won’t make you do anything,” he said softly.

She didn’t really believe that, but it wasn’t anything about _Barton_ that made her doubt. As far as he himself went, he was fairly… reliable. Or a damn good actor. Maybe both. But she wasn’t inclined to believe people when they expressed anything like respect for her choices. Even if there were a lot of those people at S.H.I.E.L.D.

“If we’re gonna be up for a while, I can make some coffee,” he said, moving towards the kitchen.

 _No_ , they weren’t going to be up for a _while_ , they weren’t going to _talk_ about it. She decided just to spit it out. “I thought the Red Room had come for me.”

He stopped, leaned against the wall, and looked at her thoughtfully. She stared back defiantly, waiting for scorn. “Did you see something, or hear something, or…?”

“ _No_. It was in my head. It wasn’t rational.” She felt off-balance, angry because she was off-balance, and ashamed, too. She breathed, deliberately, and tried to calm down. 

“Okay,” Barton said.

She narrowed her eyes, and looked at him. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to laugh?”

He gave her a long look. “At you? For having demons? No.”

“… okay.” Were they done? “Was that all you wanted to _know_?”

“Are you going to be okay?”

She didn’t know what the catch was— here, specifically, or with Barton, in general. But she’d lost control and snapped at him when he hadn’t been actively trying to hurt her, for something that wasn’t his fault. In his home. For all that, she curbed her sarcastic response, and just nodded.

“Okay. I’m going back to bed.” He shuffled into the alcove, then stopped, and leaned back out. “Hey, Romanova… I’m not any kind of a good man, but I have some pretty damn strong feelings about people who fuck with kids. If they ever show up, I’m not selling you out to them. Ever. There’s nothin’ they could offer me.”

Her instinctive response was that she had no real reason to believe him. But it wasn’t logical, to continue to assume he was running a long game on her, in the face of evidence to the contrary, just because she thought he would sell her out. Caution was good. Irrationality was bad. Just because she didn’t understand him didn’t mean he had to be unreal.

“Do you know any?” she asked.

“Any what?”

“Good men.”

He looked perplexed. “Well… Coulson.”

What kind of a commendation was that, when a man who said he was a bad man said another man was good?

“Night,” he said after a minute, and let the curtain fall.

Her panic had faded completely, displaced by irritation and shame, and the perplexity that was Barton. _They’re dead. I wish I’d been the one to do it, but they’re dead_. She’d escaped, and she’d survived.

She stretched out on the couch, and put the rifle on the edge of the cushions. She closed her eyes, and was surprised by how easily she slept.

*

What had woken her? She’d had a couple of terrifying nightmares, but she’d slept much longer and more deeply than she’d expected or intended. In fact, it was morning.

Ah: noise. Not from outside, which was quieter now, but inside. Barton stumbled out of the bedroom alcove, pulling a shirt over his head. He looked half awake, and his short hair was tousled and sticking up in places. He looked more human than she’d seen him before; he looked… yes, that was it. He looked like something could actually take him off-guard just then.

 _Vulnerable_ , her mind supplied.

He glanced in her direction and saw that she was awake. “Hi. Coffee?”

She appreciated that he could cut to the important points. “Please.”

“Storm’s dying down. We should be able to get through to S.H.I.E.L.D. soon, see if they have any information for us.”

“Okay.” She got out from underneath the blankets; despite the fire, it was _cold_ , and she wondered how Barton had been comfortable in only a pair of sweatpants. She stood and stretched, waking her entire body up and making sure everything was good. The Red Room had drilled into them the importance of being ready for anything from as soon as you were conscious. It was one of their less batshit crazy fixations, and she’d always kept up with it.

Her shoes had dried nicely by the fire. She pulled them on, undid the deadbolts, and opened the front door. A blast of rain tried to blow it all the way open, but she pulled it tight behind her. The ground was sodden; she wasn’t sure through the haze, but it looked like part of the cliff had crumbled over the edge, at the other end of the field.

She shook herself off and went back inside. “Even if we get the all-clear from S.H.I.E.L.D., are the roads going to be passable?”

“Eh,” Barton said from the kitchen. “There’s passable, and then there’s passable.”

“I’d prefer not to die in a fiery, muddy heap at the bottom of a cliff.”

“Wouldn’t we all.” Barton came out and handed her a cup of coffee. 

“Thanks,” she said.

He brought up some bacon, from the trapdoor, and started to cook it. “Hey,” he called from the kitchen.

“Yeah?” She poked her head in; it was too small for two people to work comfortably. 

He gestured to some potatoes on the end of the small counter. “Wrap those and stick them in the fire, would you? If we’re not here long enough to eat them, we’ll take ‘em with.”

She did so, then returned to the kitchen to watch him watching the bacon. “How far down does that hole in the floor go?”

He hesitated, as if he didn’t want to give her any more information about the place than he had to. “About twenty feet,” he said. “It parallels the pump that goes down to meet the spring. Keeps things cold. The bottom is basically a freezer.”

“You really selected this place carefully.”

His expression went flat. “Yeah.”

After the bacon, and some toasted bread Barton found somewhere, she washed the dishes by hand, as exchange for breakfast. Barton went into the bedroom alcove and returned dressed and carrying the radio. “I can’t get a signal. You want to try?” He tossed it to her.

She couldn’t get anything but static, either. She put it aside, on a channel that would be active as soon as they had reception. She had already cleaned her guns, and her knives were sufficiently sharp. She would not fidget; fidgeting was for three-year-olds. Instead she tended the fire, and then turned to Barton’s bookshelves. “Do you mind?”

He looked up. “Go ahead,” he said, with what sounded like a bit of resignation.

She picked a book on the American frontier and curled up at one end of the couch, with the radio on one side and a loaded gun on the other, just in case. The book was interesting, if only for the author’s aggrandizement of the “American frontier spirit,” whatever that meant. In her peripheral vision she saw Barton meandering around the cabin, which was impressive, since it was tiny. He took down a bow from the wall and worked on it for a while, then inspected some of the quivers. He checked the weather outside the window, and watched the rain. It almost seemed like _he_ was fidgeting. It was quite a contrast to the absolute stillness and focus she’d seen from him on missions.

She let herself relax enough, and became immersed enough in the book, that the first _twang_ startled her. She looked up to see Barton holding an— an _acoustic guitar?_ He saw her watching. “You mind?”

She shook her head, and went back to her book. He kept playing. It sounded better than tuneless strumming. She pretended not to be listening, though in a cabin that size, it was an obvious fiction. What confidence let Barton show off such a private part of himself? Or was it boredom? Or defiance at the way his hand had been forced so he’d had to bring her here?

When it seemed like Barton was absorbed in the playing, she took a couple surreptitious, more direct looks over the top of her book. It fascinated her, that the same fingers that moved with such deadly precision on a bow, or a gun— or a straight razor— could also use that precision to make music. It made sense, logically; delicacy and fine motor control were the same no matter what you used them for. But she wasn’t used to thinking of killing machines as anything but machines. Certainly not as people, with personalities, and hobbies.

After a while, he put the guitar down. “Potatoes should be done.”

They ate in silence. She still hadn’t gotten used to eating three meals a day as a rule and not an exception. The rain was falling very lightly now, but the wind was picking up.

The crackle of the radio startled them both. “—highway 23,” said a voice. “Our target got stuck in the mud.” It was someone else’s mission, but it meant the reception was back.

Barton grabbed the radio and fiddled with it until he found the right channel. “Base, this is Hawkeye, come in.”

“This is base, what’s your position?” Coulson’s voice came over the speaker after a delay of a few seconds.

Barton looked at her, then away. “Widow and I are holed up in the mountains. What’s the status of the pursuit?”

“They fell off the side of the mountain,” Coulson said. Even over the crackly radio, she could hear the satisfaction in his voice. How, exactly, had their pursuers fallen off the mountain? “You’re free to come in.”

“Copy.”

“What is your exact position?”

Barton made a _shh-shh-shh_ noise into the radio. “— breaking up,” he said. “Report… down the mountain.” He turned the radio off. She, with effort, did not smile.

Barton spent a few minutes tidying and securing the cabin. She broke down the rifle and put on her own clothes, leaving Barton’s folded in the little bathroom alcove. He tossed her an extra pair of socks. “Don’t have any shoes good for climbing in your size, so these’ll have to do.”

She pulled the extra pair on while he grabbed the harnesses from the back wall and checked them over carefully. Finally he nodded, apparently satisfied. When he ducked behind the curtain, she did her own inspection. She wasn’t as knowledgeable as he was, but the harnesses looked like they should hold for at least one trip. There were still two more hanging from the wall. What were those for? They wouldn’t be much good reaching the cabin from inside.

Barton returned with a waterproof jacket and handed it to her. “Forgot I had this. Should fit you.”

She wasn’t sure why he had a jacket in her size, but she was glad. “Thanks for the gear.”

“Sure.”

He did something with the solar panel control box, did one last check of the cabin, and opened the door. He looked wistful, but when he turned around after locking the door behind him, the expression had vanished.

She pulled the hood of the jacket up. The rain had tapered off, but it was still very windy, and she was being buffeted with droplets from all directions. But the cloud cover was lighter, and there was daylight above it, so she could see without straining her eyes.

She followed Barton to the cliff’s edge. She imitated what he did in putting the harness on, then followed him as he climbed down. It was easier to see the handholds now, but the rock was slicker; at some point in the night, the wind had veered around, drenching the parts of the cliff that had been protected before. But she reached the last anchor without incident—

—put her foot on an unstable and slippery bit, lost her balance, and fell. The harness caught her before she reached the ground. She swung into the cliff, and saw stars. She managed to get her feet under her again, and fumbled with her harness. She got it unclipped, and realized too late that it had been holding her weight. No longer suspended, she slid down and landed unceremoniously on her ass.

“This is not one of my better moments,” she muttered, and rubbed her stinging temple. Barton entered her field of view, offering her an arm up. When she didn’t take it, he squatted, and tilted her chin up with three careful fingertips so he could get a good look at her eyes.

“You okay? How hard did you hit your head?”

“You’ve always had those two heads, right?”

Barton stared at her.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” She climbed ungracefully to her feet. “Some front walk you have there, Barton.”

“Keeps away the door-to-door salesmen and the Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

They reached the car. Natalia stripped off her sodden socks while Barton turned them around in very tight space. They headed down the mountain, and discovered that large chunks of the path had been washed out. Barton steered around the missing places as nonchalantly as if they were traffic cones. Her stomach lurched out from under her when she looked out the window and saw straight down, _all_ the way down. She held on to her dignity and refused to make any noise. The Red Room had taught her to stay calm even in the face of extreme circumstances. It would take more than Clint Barton's driving to scare her. She told herself that repeatedly.

They got to the bottom in one piece. She looked over at Barton, who wasn’t even gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. “If you ever get tired of shooting things, you could probably find a second career as a driver of anything on wheels.”

“Ever steered a camel caravan?” Barton asked, turning onto a main road.

“… no.”

“I’ll drive down that mountain any day before I ever do that again.”

She let enough time pass so that it sounded like she was just casually bringing up the next topic, and not like she’d been carefully planning how to phrase it ever since she’d realized where he'd taken her. “So, we’re telling Coulson we holed up in the car?”

Barton turned his head quickly. Surprise, relief, and suspicion crossed his face in that order. 

“Or I’m open to other suggestions.”

“That works for me,” he said, after a silence long enough to belie his casual tone.

Just because _S.H.I.E.L.D._ didn’t know the location of his place didn’t mean he would keep it. She… felt bad, actually, at the idea that he would abandon it just because she knew where it was. She examined that feeling. Surely it was a useless waste of energy to feel that way— but was that what _she_ thought, or was it the Red Room talking? She’d had enough of living her life by their precepts. Better— yes, that was right. Better to be foolish and original than a safe drone living by the rules of the dead monster who had tortured her into its image.

“I had— have a safe house,” she said after a few minutes, choosing her words carefully. She was deliberately sharing something about herself, and that always brought risks. He didn’t say anything, but she knew he was listening. “As you can imagine, the Red Room wasn’t big on originality. That was the first place where I… where I learned to be me.” Where she’d understood the very _concept_ of having a self. “I haven’t been back since S.H.I.E.L.D.— since you brought me in. I don’t know if I’ll ever get back.” She paused. “I, um. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you and your place.” She let the silence stretch out. 

“Appreciate it,” Barton said finally. That didn’t give anything away about what he was going to do, but it was out of her hands now.

They made it back to the base in Virginia and got a lift to Missouri. Coulson wasn’t available when they got into base, and nobody could— or would— tell them where he was. Barton disappeared. She want back to her tiny room and put Natalie’s clothes away, changing into something closer to what Natalia preferred, when she permitted herself to have preferences. A few hours later she was summoned to a conference room. Barton was already there, with Coulson; Coulson had a bandage across his forehead and a burn on his left hand, as well as an entire thermos of coffee. She raised one eyebrow. He didn’t explain.

They summarized the mission for Coulson, each adding details to the other’s narrative where they thought it was necessary. Coulson paid careful attention, as always, but he seemed a little distracted. He didn’t ask many questions.

“… holed up by the side of the road, waited out the storm, and headed back to Virginia,” Barton finished.

Coulson tilted his head and looked at Barton, then at her. She expected more questions about that, but what they got was, “Thank you.”

Barton nodded and pushed back his chair.

“Ms. Romanova,” Coulson continued. “We had an incident about ten hours ago. Dr. Rosales was critically injured defending vulnerable civilians. She’s not expected to survive.”

She stared. That statement shouldn’t be so hard to process. She was having difficulty thinking of Dr. Rosales as dead, which was a flaw in her thought processes that she needed to fix. It was dangerous to think of people as immune from danger or harm just because they acted fearless. “What kind of incident?”

“An asset that we brought in for debriefing turned out to be hostile, and got loose,” Coulson said. “Dr. Rosie got between him and some retreating protected witnesses, and managed to bring him down. She was shot several times.”

 _An asset that we brought in for debriefing turned out to be hostile--_ what they had feared would happen with _her_. That was exactly the situation Dr. Rosales had risked by being so fearless, and so cavalier, about Natalia’s abilities. Had her success in that instance— her confidence that Natalia was not a threat— led her to be overconfident in this instance?

“I’m sorry,” Coulson said. “I thought you would want to know.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Her brain was still catching up. That explained Coulson’s bandage and burn. How many ‘vulnerable civilians’ had _he_ been defending? Was he subdued because they’d lost an unknown number of people, and were about to lose a good doctor and a good agent? Or was it because they were about to lose Dr. Rosales, specifically? 

“Unless you have any questions, we’re done here,” Coulson said.

Barton followed her out. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

 _She wasn’t my_ — Natalia stopped before she spoke. Did it really matter that much, that she needed to deny friendship with a woman as good as dead? “Thanks,” she said instead.

* 

Someone knocked, waking her out of a fractured sleep punctuated by dreams of needles and saws. She opened the door. It was Coulson, who looked like he still hadn’t slept. “Dr. Rosales is awake and asking for you.”

“Asking for _me?_ Why?”

“I didn’t ask. Does it matter?”

She knew he didn’t want an answer for that. She followed him to Medical. Before they crossed the threshold, Natalia said, “I thought you said she wasn’t expected to survive.” Was she being brought to a death bed? Most of the others she’d attended had been of her own making.

“The doctors now put her chances at sixty percent,” Coulson said. “Apparently she didn’t get the message that she was dying.”

He sounded faintly relieved. Her earlier question came back to her— _was_ their relationship entirely professional? She didn’t care about the answer, but it provided data about two people interesting to her… She put that aside for later and went to the curtained cubicle he indicated.

Dr. Rosales was hooked up to oxygen, to several IVs, and to a bunch of monitors. _Bullet to the left thigh and right arm_ , Natalia thought, assessing her injuries dispassionately. _One, maybe two in the internal organs_. _Massive blood loss_. Her face was very pale, in contrast to the sweaty chestnut hair that was all over her pillow.

The doctor had her eyes open. “You came,” she said hoarsely.

Natalia gingerly sat down in the chair. “I have no idea what the hell I’m doing here, but I’m pretty sure with injuries like that you’re not supposed to be straining yourself.”

Dr. Rosales seemed inclined to agree, because she didn’t immediately start talking. That still left Natalia with no idea what the hell she was doing there. She continued to study the doctor. Dr. Rosales looked terrible, but she thought Coulson was right; the doctor looked on the _right_ side of terrible. Natalia had seen enough dying people to know the difference.

“Know you’ve been close to death,” Dr. Rosales said. “Ever doubt what you’ve done?”

 _You brought me here for_ reassurance? Natalia was generally the _last_ person anyone wanted at their death bed. “I’m usually focused on _not dying_ rather than on regrets.”

“Not regrets. Doubts.”

She decided to play along. Dr. Rosales’ mind might be wandering, but she had saved Natalia’s own mind. It did not cost her anything, to give the doctor this. _I pay my debts_ , she'd said.“To have doubts, you have to have a, a goal,” she said. “A purpose. You have to have… the possibility of having acted incorrectly.” She shrugged. “My doubts are usually pretty utilitarian. Methodological.” She'd doubted her plan for taking out the Red Room many times. With good reason, as it had turned out.

“Hmm.”

“Are you having doubts?” Natalia asked after a moment.

Dr. Rosales closed her eyes and rested for a few minutes. “That’s why,” she said, breathing carefully, “I wanted to see you.”

Natalia raised an eyebrow. “Regretting deprogramming my brain?”

“Wondering,” breath, “if it was _enough_.”

“Enough for what.”

“Me.”

Natalia was puzzled momentarily, and then raised the other eyebrow. “Salvation through good works? Each reformed asset equal to seven years in purgatory?”

“Something,” breath, “like that.” She turned her head to see Natalia’s eyebrows. “People do,” breath, “odd things,” breath, “when the darkness…”

“Yes,” Natalia said, to spare her having to finish the sentence with what was obvious difficulty.

Dr. Rosie’s eyebrows furrowed. “Where did,” she said, “you learn about purgatory?”

Natalia blinked. And tried to remember. “I did a lot of work in Catholic countries,” she said. “I must have heard about it there.”

“Interesting.”

What was it with scientists, that they would not stop considering things ‘interesting’ even when they were _on their death beds?_ And was her brain chasing that rabbit trail to avoid considering how unconvinced she was by the explanation she’d given Dr. Rosales? Purgatory wasn’t a concept that she believed in, but it was a concept that was deeply familiar to her… why?

She leaned back in her chair. “So you have deep dark secrets in your past that you’re atoning for?”

Dr. Rosales smiled faintly. “Price of life.”

“Really?” Natalia asked drily. “It’s not the admission price _or_ the exit fee. Both are free.” It was what was in between that didn’t come cheap.

So she was Dr. Rosales’ redemption fee? She’d assumed the other woman was motivated by the science that held her in thrall. That had been fine; that was understandable and predictable, just another variety of the lure of fame. But apparently the doctor was really motivated by a _Cause_. People with causes were dangerous.

The doctor shrugged. “All have our quirks,” she said faintly. “Doing all right?”

It was such a vague question. Physically, Natalia was in excellent shape, in near-perfect health. Weeks of more rest than she’d gotten since she was a small child, and meals delivered regularly, had filled in some metaphorical chinks in her armor. Mentally, she was functional— which was all that really mattered— and healthier than she’d been in a long time. How long would she have had before the clock had run out for her sanity— or would she have been able to spend the rest of her life fighting off what the Red Room had put in her head, getting better and better at it, until one day she won, but at the expense of everything else?

Those questions were irrelevant at the moment. She was in greater control now, and that was always good. Emotionally? The question was laughable. Spies didn’t have emotions. They didn’t need them.

 _Liar_. _Still made in the Red Room’s image, are you_?

“Fuck you,” Natalia said aloud, then: “Not you. Yes. I’m fine.”

Dr. Rosales’ mouth crinkled with amusement, though she— wisely— did not laugh, since she was having a difficult enough time just breathing. Natalia resisted the urge to scowl: bad enough that she’d given away information by demonstrating a reaction to the question, no need to compound her mistake with further display of emotions. Which she’d just agreed she didn’t need.

“Who are you going to be?” Dr. Rosie asked.

Natalia blinked. “What.”

The doctor made a small movement that could have been a shrug. “You have. Choices, now. What will you do?”

“What I’ve always done,” Natalia said. “You seem to be under the impression that I’m going to magically reinvent myself and have revelations from on high about my new life course.”

“Pain meds.”

“Fair enough.” Natalia stretched her legs, and watched Dr. Rosales’ eyelids droop. “Satisfied that you’ve assured your salvation? I don’t want to wear you out.”

“Thanks,” Dr. Rosales said, “for coming.”

Natalia stood, then turned back at the edge of the curtain. “If you, um. Want me to come back, it’s not a problem.”

The doctor gave her a weak smile that Natalia took as understanding, but she was clearly on the edge of sleep. Natalia left her to it. Agent Coulson was still waiting at the edge of the room, which surprised her. “How is she?” he asked.

Natalia eyed him. If he wanted a report on Dr. Rosie’s condition, he could have asked the medical staff. Did that mean he hadn’t talked to her since she’d woken up? She filed that away under “potentially interesting information about Agent Coulson, and also Dr. Rosales.” “Awake. Semi-coherent.”

“Semi?”

Natalia shrugged. “She was talking about morality and redemption. I couldn’t really follow.”

“Ah.”

“She didn’t look like she was about to die.”

“Good. That’s good.” Coulson looked like he wanted to smile, but didn’t. “You should get some rest.”

She eyed him further. “You woke me out of a sound sleep. I think you might be projecting a bit.”

“Mmm. Possibly.” They started back down the corridor. “Operations wants you for a group mission. I’ve given a provisional go-ahead, unless you have any objections.”

“No.”

“Then your briefing is at noon. Good luck.”

*

She’d always thought people who said life had a sense of humor were either being frivolous or had lived very sheltered lives, but she was toying with the possibility of seriously considering whether it had a sense of irony.

She knocked on Barton’s door. There was an indistinct noise from inside. After a long moment, he opened the door. He was disheveled, in boxers and a T-shirt, and she’d clearly woken him.

His bleary-eyed gaze sharpened when he saw her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why’d you wake me up?”

“I didn’t know you were asleep. I’m sorry.”

He rubbed his hand through his short hair, making it stand on end. “I need either coffee or a better explanation,” he muttered.

“I, um. I need to know. How to, uh, impersonate a guitar player.”

His hand stopped ruffling his hair. He stared at her, and then ran his hand in the other direction, making it even more disheveled. “What.”

“For a cover story. They’re sending me to a nightclub to help take down a weapons thief. I was, um. I was hoping you could… help. Me.” There was a pause, while she waited for Barton to say something, but he didn’t. “Coulson told me you were on base. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“You didn’t know,” he said, then added in an undertone, “ _Coulson_ should have known.”

Before she had time to wonder if Coulson had set her up, he continued, “We’ll need a guitar.”

She picked up the case leaning against the wall in the hallway.

He stared at it. “Now?”

“Uh— whenever is good for you.”

He ran his hand through his hair yet again, and then scratched the back of his neck. At this point it looked like a small bristly mammal had gotten really drunk and was hungover, upside down, on his head. “Gimme ten minutes and meet me in the east lounge, fourth level.”

Ten minutes later she was waiting there, with the guitar case and also a large cup of black coffee. Barton showed up, showered and clothed. She handed him the cup of coffee. He took it and drank about a third of it in one long swallow. “You’re a wonderful human being,” he said fervently.

She could safely say that she, Natalia Romanova, had never heard _that_ before. She didn't remind him that she’d been the one to wake him in the first place.

He sat down next to her. “Okay, what’ve we got? Do you know how to play at all?”

“No. But I’m a fast learner.” She put the case on the table in front of them, and opened it. Barton lifted out the guitar, carefully, eyebrows going up.

“This is nice. Where’d you get it?”

“Coulson.”

He nodded, and looked it over, stroking parts of it with gentle fingers. “You play anything else?”

“Piano. Or I did.” The Red Room had forced her to learn.

“Okay. The most important thing to know about a guitar is that if you ever have to hit someone over the head with it, you need to grab the neck near the body.”

“… okay.”

“The second most important thing to know is that that’s a _horrible_ thing to do to a guitar. So don’t if you can possibly avoid it.”

“… okay.”

“Okay, the _third_ most important thing…”


	6. Amsterdam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.) This chapter contains disturbing imagery, as noted in the warnings for the entire story. Please see the end notes for a more detailed description, with slight spoilers, if you are concerned about the content.
> 
> 2.) The Duchess of Hälsingland is a real person, but her involvement in this story is entirely fictional.

It was a good thing the coffee on the Missouri base was decent, because Clint was ending up there more and more, these days. It was because of Romanova: they hadn’t told her about the Manhattan base, so she was in Missouri; Clint was her babysitter, so _he_ was in Missouri. Coulson was spending a lot of time there, too. S.H.I.E.L.D. obviously had high hopes for Romanova, if Coulson was taking so much time away from his other projects to work from Missouri. If this all went horribly wrong, the loss of that time would be one more grievance to lay at someone’s feet. Probably his.

He wandered into the briefing room and wasn’t surprised that Romanova had beaten him there. The large purple bruise diagonal across her face _was_ surprising. She'd propped a mirror on the table, and was applying two different types of makeup, one to cover the top half and the other to cover the bottom. “What happened to you?” he asked.

She glanced up. “Bar fight.” She also had a split lip.

He sat down and watched her. “The one on top’s a better match for your skin." It was hard to be sure, in the fluorescent light, but she’d probably had practice putting on makeup in all kinds of conditions.

She nodded. “Yeah, I think so too.” She took a cotton pad from her bag and carefully removed the other shade, wincing at the pressure.

“What really happened to you?”

“Bar fight,” she said innocently.

He raised an eyebrow, but let the subject drop.

She relented. “An actual bar fight. S.H.I.E.L.D. bungled the nightclub mission, and the target was getting away.”

“So,” Coulson said, coming through the door with a drink carrier just in time to catch the end of that, “you decided to drop your cover and chase her _and_ her bodyguard into the alley, without a weapon.”

“I didn’t need a weapon. Even,” she added, “a guitar.”

Clint was relieved to hear that.

“There were other agents in the vicinity.” Coulson distributed cups of coffee, hot and black. Either Clint was temporarily in Coulson’s good graces, for some reason, or Romanova was in them, despite the scolding Coulson was giving her, and Clint was a side beneficiary.

“Slow agents with no sense of imagination or initiative, and hand-to-hand skills I learned when I was seven, yes.”

“They do, however, have a sense of self-preservation.”

“That never gets the job done.”

“Happily,” Coulson said, activating the screen, “your next mission isn’t undercover, so the conspicuous injuries you incurred won’t matter.”

Clint worked hard not to smile. Coulson was _fussing_. Had he actually been worried about Romanova? It didn’t sound like that-- it sounded like Coulson was just annoyed she’d made herself noticeable-- but he knew Coulson. He'd had similar scoldings himself.

Coulson pulled up a picture of a tall, balding white man. “It’s a smash-and-grab,” he said. “You’ll break into this man’s office, find the plans for a certain classified U.S. jet that’s still in development, take them, and get out. We want both the hard copies and the digitals. Romanova, you’ll do the insertion; Barton, you’ll be her backup.”

They both nodded.

“We want to take the plans away from Halse, but we also want to know where he got them, so don’t destroy them.” Coulson displayed a map of Europe. “S.H.I.E.L.D. is committing significant resources to a parallel operation in Sweden. It’s not targeting Halse directly, but it may distract him. Or it may make him more paranoid.” He looked from one of them to the other. “Any questions so far?”

They both shook their heads.

“Okay.” He pulled up a list of names and addresses.

*

She fucking _hated_ self-destruct devices.

_Stay calm_. Tensing up would make it harder to pick the lock, and waste time that she couldn’t spare. If she couldn’t get this damn thing open, the bomb was going to blow the contents of the safe, leaving S.H.I.E.L.D. in a worse position than before. Not a great conclusion to what was only her fourth mission with them. 

Barton stayed helpfully quiet. She’d reported the device as soon as she’d noticed it, and he’d shut up and let her work. She appreciated that, and that S.H.I.E.L.D. had paired her with someone competent. She couldn’t actually think of any time when he’d slowed her down— getting kidnapped didn’t count—

She _needed_ to be thinking about this damn safe. She didn't know what kind of explosive was inside, or how big the blast would be, so it was hard to know when she needed to cut and run if she couldn't get the stupid thing open.

“Movement on the west side of the building, looks like four guys,” Barton said.

Damn it, they were prepared for the eventuality that she might escape the bomb. Setting off the bomb must have signaled Halse's security.

“I’ll take ‘em out if I can,” he added.

_There_. The last tumbler dropped into place. The surge of relief made her hands shake, but she managed not to drop anything when she stuck her hands inside the safe—

“SHIT!” Fuck, _fuck_ — _Romanova, you fucking idiot—_

“Romanova?”

She had visions of having to cut her hand off at the wrist. _The clock’s ticking, get moving_. She thought past the pain, and aimed the flashlight into the safe, where she saw the trap that had gotten her fingers. She was cutting it close— but she needed to check the rest of the safe for another booby trap. If she got both hands stuck, she was fucked.

She reached in, released the trap, and pulled her dripping, bloody fingers out. The books were behind it— _of course_ — and she had to reach past carefully, spending time she didn’t have, to keep the damn thing from latching onto her arm. The blast would destroy any DNA she left behind, which was good, but it was going to destroy _all_ her DNA if she didn’t _get moving_ —

The timer reached single digits— she was out of time—

She yanked out the contents of the safe and bolted for the doorway. As soon as she was through, she took a hard left, trying to put more walls between her and the bomb—

“Romanova, do you copy?”

“Not now,” she panted—

The bomb went off.

She half-fell, half-dove to the ground. A blast of heat passed over her head. She stumbled to her feet again, running forward. The building felt unsteady, and she fell again. Debris was falling—

Something hard hit her head. She collapsed on the ground…

She lost track of time for a while, and nearly everything else, only vaguely aware of breathing and darkness. After a while, the haze cleared, and she came to her senses, literally.

“— Romanova, if you’re dead, I’m gonna kill you,” Barton was muttering. His breathing was unsteady, and she heard running footsteps.

She smiled through the pain in her hand, her head, her legs, her… everything. “Not dead,” she croaked. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Can you move?” he demanded.

“Uh…”

“You need to get out of there, NOW. They’re almost on top of you—“

Glass shattered, and there was a scream behind her at the same moment as Barton’s controlled exhale came over the earpiece. He was taking them out, but that scream had been _close_. She scrabbled to her hands and knees, then to her feet. The world spun. “Shit,” she whispered. 

_Survive now, panic later_. She forced herself forward. The contents of the safe were in her left hand, so she needed to shoot with her right hand, but the thought of closing her damaged fingers around the barrel of a gun made her nauseous, so she needed to shoot with her _left_ hand— she gingerly transferred the books and the hard drives to the crook of her right arm, then switched her gun to her good hand. Behind her—

Someone shouted. They’d seen her— no, they hadn’t, because she’d just reached the safety of the stairwell. It was dark, while the hallway and the offices had windows, and the men in the corridor were silhouetted. But they were shouting something about blood—

Oh, _fuck_. Her bleeding hand had left a trail down the hall. They looked down the hall— she ducked behind cover as they shot at her. They couldn’t easily pass the burning office, but all they had to do was call someone elsewhere in the building, and she’d be trapped like a rat. She shot wildly around the door frame, three times, then dove for the stairs. Fiery pain burned its way across her lower back before she got under cover again, but she didn’t stop. _Just a graze_. She slid, painfully, down the stairs; she twisted to get her legs under her and not go face-first down the concrete. She staggered upright. She had the goods from the vault; she had her weapons. Everything else was optional.

There was only one way forward. She didn’t have to make a decision until she reached the next floor. She ignored pain and dizziness and kept going. The next floor down was dark, but she didn't trust that, and lurked in the doorway, watching. Had they had time to set up a trap, or were they going for brute force?

Footsteps, coming down the hall. She didn’t have time to worry. She bolted out of the doorway and down the other corridor— “He’s here!” someone shouted— _Shit._ Coulson would want to know, eventually, that the security was multinational, because that had been English, with an Australian accent--

_Priorities_. Get out of sight. Kill the guard on this floor. She doubled back towards the stairwell, hugging the inside wall. She heard shots upstairs, and a scream. But she’d heard it over her _earpiece_ , too. Barton was inside. She listened to the footsteps approaching—

_Two_ sets of footsteps, she realized too late, her hearing thrown off by gunfire and dizziness. _He must have been on a lower floor._ The man came up the stairs and turned his head right at her. She shot once, missed, steadied her hand, and shot him between the eyes before he could return fire. But that meant—

The _other_ man burst around the corner, already tracking to where she was crouching. She dove forward. For a minute, everything went hazy with pain as she rolled over her injured back. A bullet passed way too close to her head for comfort. She finished her roll, came up behind the man, and returned fire, but her aim was abysmal, she hit his _shoulder_ from _three feet away_ — 

“You got more incoming,” Barton panted. Another scream— he was busy up there--

— she kicked up and connected with the man’s wrist, but not the one attached to the hand holding the gun. She got her foot under her to stand, slipped in her own blood, grabbed a throwing knife and threw blindly as she recovered, grabbed his arm to pull herself up, and shot him.

She’d taken too long. More people were coming down the hall to her right. She started towards the stairwell, heard footsteps there too, continued all the way around, and bolted down the other corridor. She was running down the long side of a rectangular building. There would be more places to hide here. If she could just make it to the other stairwell, she could get to the ground floor and get out. If she could slow them down— or hide in one of the offices— some of the doors were open. She started slamming them as she passed, because it wasn’t like they didn’t know she was there, and if she could make them think she was inside one, they’d have to search them all—

No, they wouldn’t, because she was still dripping blood.

_Fuck._ She’d double back, and—

Another group came out of the stairwell at the end of the corridor, and she was trapped in a killbox with a half-empty gun and a useless right hand.

They'd turned to the left without seeing her, but that wouldn't last. She kept running. The ones behind her rounded the corner. She ducked as the bullets started flying. If she kept weaving, she’d be a harder target, but someone would get lucky eventually, especially now that the other group had come back around the corner—

The hallway opened up into an airy lounge-bridge, with a floor-to-ceiling glass window on one side, overlooking an interior courtyard on the other. _There,_ another exit! She was three stories up, but she could dangle over the edge of the railing, and drop to the next level-- she wouldn’t have a hand to shoot with— it would probably get her killed, but this was _definitely_ going to get her killed— She put her back to the railing, getting out of both lines of fire. One of the men screamed. Friendly crossfire, the morons.

She looked down—

There was no corresponding hallway below. It was a straight drop three stories down, onto some sort of glass thing that would probably not support her weight—

Another shot and a scream from the other side of the building. “Romanova, keep your head down, give me twenty seconds, I will _get you an exit_ ,” Barton said, running and breathless. She didn't have twenty seconds— she flattened herself between the railing and the wall, then popped around the corner and shot three men in the oncoming group on that side. Then she was out of bullets. She’d have to holster her gun to grab a knife— she’d have to hold the gun in her right hand to reload— 

She stared over the edge again. If she hung on the bottom of the railing, and dropped straight down, could she land on the edge? She’d be just as thoroughly trapped down there-- no, was that a door?

“ _Hang on_ —“ Barton grunted—

She looked down— if she was going, it had to be _now_ —

Twenty seconds came and went. Footsteps were coming up fast on her left. Her gun was empty. She fumbled two knives out of her sheaths. Maybe she could steal a gun and use a body as a meat shield, but she was beat up and cornered, the chances weren’t good—

She should have gone over the edge. She was going to die here, because she’d trusted Clint Barton--

Something flew over her head and shattered the plate glass in the giant window, sending glass spraying outwards. She ducked, and put a knife in the throat of the first man around the corner. He fell, but not far enough for her to grab his gun— she killed a second man, and then was unarmed— 

Something hard slammed into her, shoving her off her feet, but she didn’t fall because there was a strong arm around her waist— _ah, shit, fuck_ , pain burned in her injured back— “It’s me!” Barton said, as momentum carried them crashing through the window—

_Ow, fuck, fuck_ — 

She had the books and the drives cradled to her chest, and her hand was burning—

She might throw up, which would be humiliating—

They crashed through another window and landed hard.

For a minute, she thought she was dead.

Barton groaned. “Status?”

A bullet flew harmlessly over their heads and embedded itself in the wall. She swallowed a moan. “Got shot. Didn’t stick.”

He rolled away from her and pushed himself half-upright. “Is that—“ he reached for the bundle in her arms.

_He’s going to take the objective and leave you here to die._

She jerked back, reaching for her nearest knife. Barton automatically went for his gun-- it was all going to go to hell--

_What the hell am_ I _doing?_

She relaxed. Then Barton relaxed. “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

He nodded once. Then he looked her over more thoroughly. “You look like shit.”

“Yeah, probably,” she agreed. “Thanks for the save.”

“Mmm.”

How _had_ he pulled that off? She looked around. His bow was beside him, and underneath that was the end of a long cord, that went up and disappeared through the broken window, attached to something above. Very dramatic. Melodramatic, almost. She felt a little shitty over nearly going for him, just then, so she fluttered her eyelashes and added, “My hero.”

Barton was startled, blank, for a minute. Then he broke into a cheeky grin. “Let’s skip the swooning.”

She struggled into a sitting position. “I’m, ah… not sure about that.”

His gaze sharpened on her, and he was instantly serious. “Oh.” He looked back the way they’d come. “This is a government building, security’ll be slower and not shooting to kill. I’ll, ah…” He looked her over again. “Steal us some transport.”

They wriggled out of the room, staying low, and ran for the lower level. She grabbed a handful of paper towels from a restroom to slow the bleeding and make her trail a little less obvious. By sheer luck, they’d ended up in a massive warren of a building, with multiple exits on multiple streets; there was no way Halse’s men could cover all of them. They escaped into a back alley before the building was efficiently surrounded. Barton led her through a maze of twists and turns. Finally she gave up and admitted she was lost. She really, really hated that, having to rely on someone else, but she had bigger problems at the moment. And if Barton had saved her from gunmen only to mislead her into a back alley in Amsterdam and kill her, that wasn’t Machiavellian, that was just stupid.

Finally he said, “Wait here,” and slipped off into the darkness. She listened carefully for sounds of pursuit, but it seemed he’d gotten them thoroughly away. She reloaded her gun, and looked at her fingers. She hadn’t had time to examine them before, and now, there wasn’t enough light. That… was probably good, considering how they felt. The gash in her back burned. She needed to get it closed, soon, and she needed water to replace all the blood she’d lost. Everything else could wait.

The world was disquietingly unsteady when she heard a car approaching. She melted further back into the shadows, but it was just Barton, with a little sedan. He leaned over and opened the door.

“Perfect timing.” She climbed in, closed the door, and passed out.

*

She woke up, and panicked. Situation: flat on her stomach, burning pain in her lower back, wrists and ankles restrained by-- nothing.

That eased her panic. Her head was pillowed on something soft. Wherever she was, it was dim and silent. She opened her eyes more-- there was someone right in front of her-- she tensed-- and then recognized Barton.

Right: Klaipeda, S.H.I.E.L.D., Amsterdam, Halse's office. “What's going on,” she rasped.

Barton looked over quickly. “Hi.”

“What's going on,” she repeated, voice stronger.

He tilted his head in a shrug. “You got closely acquainted with the dashboard, we got away, this was the second likely place I saw to go to ground, I stitched you up, went back and hid the car a ways away.”

_Stitched me up--_ she started to reach back, and discovered that her right hand was bandaged.

“Yeah, I did the best I could there,” Barton said. “Didn't have much of a kit on me. It's not great, sorry.”

She looked carefully at the bandages. They were clean; the bleeding must have stopped, if he'd put them on before he'd taken care of the car. Then she looked warily at him, reached back with her left hand, and touched the line of stitches in her lower back. She did not at _all_ like the thought of someone doing something to her body while she was unconscious. But it made her skin crawl a bit less coming from Barton, than from anyone else.

But only a bit.

She propped herself up on her elbows, wincing, and discovered her pillow was Barton's jacket. She looked around the dim, empty space. “Where are we?”

“Warehouse, outside the city.”

A warehouse outside of Amsterdam. She took slow, careful breaths.

“What's wrong?”

“I-- nothing, I...” She pinched her arm, hard.

“Yeah, that's convincing.”

“Please stay where I can see you.” The embarrassing words came out in an embarrassing rush.

His eyebrows went up at that. He shifted into a more comfortable position, stretching his legs out. “Okay,” he said. “Wanna tell me why?”

She shook her head, and looked around some more. “Why are we still-- what's our extraction? The papers?” She didn't like having to rely on someone else for her information.

“The goods are fine.” He patted a pile on the other side of his leg. “Our extraction is where this gets a bit tricky.”

Her eyes narrowed. “'Tricky.'”

“That was too many guys to be just normal nighttime security,” Barton said. “ _Way_ too many. It was, what, at least twenty? And the Sweden operation didn't go until just after you opened the safe, so they weren't spooked by that.”

She thought through that. Her brain wasn't functioning as well as she'd liked. “You think they were expecting us.”

“We know S.H.I.E.L.D. has a leak.” He looked grim. “Your fun with Director Fury proved that.”

“The safe was booby-trapped.” She described it to him. “I don't know if it was a new trap.”

He looked disgusted. “So that's how that happened.”

She nodded.

“I called Coulson,” Barton said. “He's the only one who knows what's going on. If we go with the original extraction, that might be compromised, too. But until he can rearrange some things, get someone he really trusts free, we're stuck here. And they're kinda busy in Sweden.”

_Stuck_. “Any idea how long?”

“No. Sorry.” He reached over and handed her a water bottle. “Picked this up when I hid the car. Should help a little with the dizziness.”

“I didn't say I was dizzy.” She examined the seal, and then cracked it.

“What, you got a blood machine inside you that instantly replaces all the lost fluid?” He raised an eyebrow. “You think _I've_ never lost blood?”

He wasn't wrong about her being dizzy. She drank half the bottle down, then rested her head on her arms and watched him evenly. He was as he'd always been: steady, and solid. Possibly, in a world where she couldn't trust her memories, one of the most real things she'd ever seen. If she just kept her gaze on him, she wouldn't see... the rest of the warehouse. And whatever less real things might be coming out of the shadows.

He was inspecting his arrowheads. “Something I oughta know?” he asked without looking up.

“I...” she said. “I can't, I don't...” She went for at least a note of coherence. “I don't feel very... well.”

His hand hovered over her forehead. “Uh...”

“'s fine.” 

The back of his hand rested lightly on her skin. “You're not feverish.”

She put her head down and laughed, helplessly, until the stitches in her back strained painfully, and tears were in her eyes. “Not feverish. Not delusional. Not yet. Not any more?”

“Romanova?” She had his full attention.

She looked away. “Describe the warehouse to me.”

He described it from memory, without having to look up. “Small. Couple thousand square feet. Two sets of doors, one front, one back. Windows every ten feet, about four feet up. That's how we got in. There's an old newspaper in the corner, so it looks like it's been deserted about three years.”

“Second story?”

“No.”

“Platform? Balcony?”

“Nope. Ceiling's about ten feet high.”

At least it wasn't the _same_ place. She slumped against the floor, and relaxed. He finished checking his gear, and put his quiver off to the side. Then he closed his eyes and stretched out on the ground. She was sure he wasn't sleeping; being still and waiting for long periods of time was second nature to him, apparently. She didn't dare sleep herself, but she watched him breathe slowly.

“You should rest,” he said after about fifteen minutes.

“I am resting.”

“With your eyes closed.”

“No,” she said flatly.

He didn't press the point. She peeled back the bandage and peeked at her fingers. Not as bad as she'd feared; hand wounds always hurt a lot, and bled a lot. It should heal quickly. She--

Footsteps, outside.

She grabbed her gun. Barton, usually so alert, hadn't stirred. “There's someone coming,” she hissed. She rolled behind the nearest piece of debris. He sat up and grabbed his bow in one motion, crouching--

He turned, and stared at her. “Where?” he mouthed.

She gestured frantically to the front door, sheltering behind the broken desk and aiming over the top.

He looked from the door, to her, and back to the door, drawing and nocking an arrow. Then he turned and looked at her again. “There's no one out there.”

“ _Yes_ \--” The footsteps seemed to multiply, and grow rushed, and she heard whispers in the wind outside the building. She shook her head, then shook it harder, and the sound... vanished.

She sank slowly down to the ground, not really feeling the wood under her hands. She'd worried about her _sight_ , but she had five senses, and all of them could be fooled.

“Hey.” Barton sat cross-legged beside her.

“We're alone. I know we are.”

He frowned. “Did someone get close enough to stick you with something? You remember? Was it... coulda been a drug on that trap.”

“They didn't stick me with anything.”

He just waited. She knew she couldn't put off the explanation any longer. “When I got away from the Red Room,” she said at last, “I was... I had their drugs in my system. I knew I needed to get them out. If I could, and still live. I holed up and waited. I was...” she licked her lips. “I was in a warehouse, outside of Amsterdam.”

“But not this warehouse.”

“No.”

“How bad?”

She tilted her head back so she could see him. “Enough.”

“How long?”

“A month.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Stay where I can see you.” Barton had no part in her hallucinations. She hadn't known him at the time. If he was there, then it was the present, and she'd been gone from the Red Room for six years.

Unless he was a hallucination, too.

The room seemed to grow darker. She really wished she hadn't thought of that.

She sniffed. Was that blood she smelled? “Are you bleeding?”

He touched a bandage visible through his torn pants. “Should have clotted by now.”

Nothing hidden by a bandage that size should produce enough blood to be perceptible to her nose. She had five senses... and all of them could be fooled.

She thought through everything from the last six years. Those memories were the most reliable. They proved that she'd escaped, she wasn't being controlled by drugs, and she wasn't imagining this. Six years of independent contract work, and fruitless attacks on the Red Room, all ending on a street in Klaipeda. She looked at Barton. “Why didn't you kill me?”

Would she finally get an answer out of him, this time? Would he feel sorry for her? He kept his gaze on hers for a long moment. “Your actions didn't match your file.”

It sounded so simple, when he put it like that. “Do you often ignore your orders?”

A smile hovered over the corner of his mouth for a second. “Often enough.”

Klaipeda; then Missouri, the debriefing, the deprogramming. That had to have been real; she'd felt like she was being torn apart from the inside out. Kansas, Ontario, Alabama, and the mission in Chapel Hill. “You can't prove a negative, right? It's a negative that you can't prove. I can't prove I'm not there. But I should be able to prove I'm here. Right?”

Barton stared at her.

“ _You_ were there,” she added.

He continued to stare at her. “You ever read Alice in Wonderland?” he asked finally.

“No. What's that?”

“It's a story. Lewis Carroll. Little girl falls through a rabbit hole and ends up in a weirdo dimension. It's feeling,” he added, “mighty familiar.”

She laughed softly. “Yeah.”

There was silence. She focused on the pain in her back as something real, to get herself under control. She'd never hallucinated pain. The pain they'd inflicted on her had always been very real. With a few slow, deep breaths, she anchored herself more firmly to reality. “I'm sorry.”

Barton shook his head. “It's fine.”

“So,” she said after a minute, “worst hole-up places. How does this rank?”

He snorted. “This doesn't even make the top ten. You ever spent the night in the sewers when it's below freezing?”

“Once... I think.” That had been during the Red Room, and her memory wasn't-- No, that was a dangerous line of thinking. “I once spent the night straddling a branch above a crocodile pit.”

He looked impressed. “How'd you get out?”

“Someone came to see if I'd died yet. I fed him to the crocodiles.”

He stretched his legs out a little more. “Best place I ever holed up was a disused apartment in Munich. It hadn't been touched it twenty years, but the previous owners had been very wealthy. Silk sheets-- what was left of them. Fancy artwork.”

“I can't top that.”

“Besides going quietly crazy, how are you feeling?”

_Fine_ , she almost said. But Barton was on her side, as much as anyone ever was, and she didn't have anything to gain right now by lying. He already knew she was vulnerable, and he'd probably see right through the lie. “Dizzy. Light-headed.”

“Here.” He handed her a candy bar from his pocket.

“Are they always Snickers?”

“Usually. More protein than most.”

She stripped off the wrapper and took a big bite. “I never had candy as a kid.”

He looked at her.

“Among other things, but that one tends to horrify people the least,” she said with a full mouth. 

“Neither did I,” he said after a minute. She waited, but he didn't elaborate.

“Thanks.” When she'd finished the candy bar, she stuck the wrapper in a pocket. “Do you want your jacket back?”

“No.”

It smelled of sweat and closed spaces, but it was soft against her cheek. Her brain was starting to outrun the reserves of her body; her body was exhausted, but her brain just wouldn't quit. If that kept the hallucinations away, that was fine with her. But she tried to relax anyway. She listened to the noise outside: distant traffic, a few birds...

… footsteps on the roof...

She grabbed for her gun. Barton was watching her, not the ceiling, so there probably wasn't anything there. But if he was in on it, if there was a plot for them to take her without struggle, all he'd have to do would be pretend he didn't hear anything...

The footsteps multiplied until they sounded like a huge crowd. Then they abruptly disappeared. Slowly, she lowered her gun and looked at Barton. He was watching her closely. She lay back down, resting her head on the jacket.

“So.” She cast about for a distraction. “Do you do that swinging-in-on-a-rope trick often?”

“Smashing through windows is one of my favorite hobbies.”

Something large seemed to move in the shadows above her. She turned her head so she could watch Barton instead. “Barton.”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

She swallowed. Did she trust him this far, not to be a part of it? Did she trust him more than her own head? “I... can't trust my senses right now. If someone's coming, I'm not going to notice.”

“No one's coming. I'll tell you if they are.”

“Thanks.” Something was digging into her stomach. She squirmed to get away from it. She wanted to put a barrier between herself and the silence, but she wasn't the babbling type, and neither was Barton. So she rested. Her eyelids were heavy. With Barton watching her back, she might be able to sleep. He was too practical, too _whole_ , to believe in nightmares that came out of the shadows. She was practical too, but when the pieces of your mind fit together like mismatched jigsaw puzzle pieces, anything could come climbing out of the cracks. 

She slid easily into half-sleep. As she drifted off more deeply, the lights flared. She sat up. “What?” But Barton was gone, replaced by an operating room. The rock was digging into her stomach again. She went to brush it away, but her hands and legs were bound.

How had she gotten onto her back? _Panic is always the least useful response to any situation_. “It's just a nightmare,” she whispered, trying to fight her way back to the warehouse, but she'd been in the warehouse before, as the fabric of reality disintegrated, and now it crumbled, like the pages of an old musty book suddenly exposed to air. 

“Did you really think you could run, Natalia Alianovna Romanova?” The voice came through the speaker, distorted, but still recognizable.

“No,” she whispered, trembling, fighting against the restraints. “No! This isn't real.”

The man chuckled. “Your conditioning is incomplete.” The door opened. Three figures in surgical masks stormed in. She screamed, her whole body bucking against the leather straps, and then the rock in her stomach became a scalpel, stuck in deep as they opened her abdomen and her head and her...

“Romanova!”

No one in the Red Room had ever said her name in that flat, slow, American cadence. The pressure on her wrists was suddenly warm, and everything was dark. She was on her stomach again, panting, heart pounding like she'd been running. She pulled one hand free, and dug the rock out of her stomach as her eyes readjusted. She stared at it. It was just a rock. She tossed it towards the wall.

Barton released her other wrist. “Are you all right?”

“I...” she panted. “I was in the Red Room. They'd caught me, all this was just a dream. They were cutting me open. Again.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. took out the Red Room.” He slid his phone across the floor to her. “I-- here.”

“I know.” She read anyway, to get the texture of the real world more firmly in her mind. It was a redacted version of the file about Madame and Ivan. She pulled her fingers back as if she'd been burned, then, cautiously, scrolled down. “Dental records. DNA.”

“Yeah,” Barton said. “Red Room's not gonna get you. I'm here, I've got your back.”

“You're not a match for the Red Room. No one is.”

“You were.”

“I was...” _I was lucky. They were toying with me, but they underestimated me. I was lucky. If the trainer hadn't gotten caught in the crossfire, I'd never have woken up. I was--_ This wasn't helpful. She considered the question that had niggled at her brain since he'd woken her. “Where were you born?”

The shift in his posture alerted her to his sudden wariness. “Iowa. Why?”

“Wondering about your accent.”

“Hmm.” He was quiet for a minute. “What about yours?”

“What do you mean?”

“You're not actually American.”

She shrugged. That was one answer she wouldn't be giving him any time soon. “People usually underestimate me when they think I'm American. I'm not sure what that says about your country.”

The shadow at the corner of Barton's mouth deepened, which meant he was smiling. “It means we're full of surprises,” he said-- drily.

She needed something to keep her head from filling in the blanks on its own. “Where'd you learn to shoot? A bow is pretty unique.”

He gave her a sharp look. “As a kid,” he said, biting off the last word.

She knew a back off signal when she saw one. “That was one weapon the Red Room never taught us.” If she couldn't get him to talk, maybe it would work as well if she talked. “But they...” She strained, trying to figure out which memory was real and which wasn't. “They dropped us each in the woods in winter, with a boar spear.” She'd taken it apart to make a knife and a staff, and had made an igloo to keep from freezing to death. Not everyone had survived that test. A face, with blue lips and short blond hair, swam in her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut, but it stayed in her mind's eye.

“Hey.”

She opened her eyes to see Barton staring at her. 

“It's not real.”

She looked away. “That one was real,” she said quietly. “Just not here and now.”

“Here and now is what counts.”

“Okay.” She pillowed her head on her arms, and watched him. He was the most real thing in the warehouse, and she had a hard time believing her mind could invent him. It created very little out of whole cloth; it cut things up and swapped them around, from reality and the false memories the Red Room had implanted. She didn't think her mind had a template for Clint Barton. She'd never met anyone like him before. He lied badly and kept secrets well; he looked everything unflinchingly in the face. He was the truest person she'd ever known. Sometimes he reminded her of tempered steel, and she wondered what had done the tempering. She could have pried it out of him. But she wouldn't, because he'd spared her life. It wasn't often she was in a position to repay someone for being kind to her.

He was resting again. He breathed slowly, and was absolutely still otherwise. She'd often had to hide, for hours or days, but she'd never achieved that stillness, the combination of no tension and complete readiness. Staying still was a liability in her world. It gave whoever was chasing her time to catch up, and there was always someone chasing her.

She was running through the dark forest, dodging roots and fallen branches as quietly as she could because someone was coming after her, but she couldn't see because there was a scene overlaid on her vision, a large empty room with a strange man asleep on the floor, and she tripped and fell on a rock and her pursuer grabbed her ankle, and then there was a sharp stabbing pain in her leg, a knife, a scalpel, and--

Someone shook her shoulder. “Romanova!”

She gasped, and the forest faded, leaving the warehouse and Barton.

“Shit,” she said.

“Can you sit up?”

“Um... yeah.”

“I wanna show you something.”

Being careful not to pull on her stitches, she sat cross-legged, leaning forward a little. Barton dug in his pockets and came up with three small objects.

“You want to show me lip gloss, a lighter, and a pocketknife?”

“It's lip _balm_.”

“... sure.”

He tossed them into the air one at a time. “You ever learn how to juggle?” he asked, not even watching them as he kept them going.

She stared. “You're good.”

“This? This is easy. You got something else?”

Her uniform didn't have nearly the cargo capacity of his-- one of the costs of using her sex appeal as a weapon-- but she came up with the tiny sheath from her left holster, and one of her lockpicks.

“Toss them at me.” She did, one by one. He added them into the mix easily. Then he closed his eyes.

“Show-off.”

He opened his eyes again and grinned at her. “Want to learn?”

“Sure.” How hard could it be? She had excellent eye-hand coordination.

Harder than it looked. After about fifteen minutes, she started to get the hang of keeping two things in the air at once as long as she was looking at them. “How long did it take you to get that good?”

“Learned when I was eleven,” he said. “Laid up for a while with a broken leg. Then when I was thirteen, I... met a teacher, and he taught me some of the fancier stuff.”

“Fancier stuff? Oh, shit.” The pocketknife and the lighter tumbled to the ground.

“Here.” He got two, then three, then four, then all five objects going, and closed his eyes. Then he started throwing them in a complicated pattern instead of just a circle. “I'd set some of the newspaper on fire and juggle that, but I don't wanna risk anyone seeing the flame through the window.”

She blinked. “You were right about _one_ American, at least.”

He opened his eyes, and smirked at her.

She took the objects back and kept practicing. Barton watched, interjecting advice and snarky commentary. Her arms started to burn, but she could keep three objects in the air for brief periods now. It was the most useless thing she'd ever learned. She felt absurdly accomplished.

The pain in her arms got worse, and she nearly slipped off the side of the building. It was slick with rain; her fingers were cramping. She swung her lower body until she could get purchase with her feet. There was an unlocked window two floors up; she didn't know how she knew that, but it felt right. She could get inside there, and--

As she clung to the side of the building, she saw herself standing inside, dripping on the rug, hands wet with the blood of a man and a child. _The window is the child's bedroom_ , a voice in her head whispered. _The child will get in the way at the last moment. You will cut its throat as a mercy killing._

She was hanging by her fingertips from the wall, certain of what she was going to do because she was also inside, having done it, searching the study as the bodies cooled. Automatically, as if of someone else's volition, she reached for the next handhold. In the study, she found what she was looking for and stepped around the puddles of blood. 

_No._ Clinging to the wall, she forced her hands open, and fell.

She slammed back into her body at the warehouse, gasping. Her last meal rose in her throat. She stumbled away and retched, not bringing anything up, not able to stop heaving. The violent motion of her stomach muscles tore at her stitches. Finally, that pain distracted her from the nausea, and she slumped on her hands and knees, chest panting.

“My God,” she whispered in Russian.

“Natalia.” Barton crouched next to her, close enough to touch but not doing so. “Natalia. You're safe here.”

“I'm never safe.” She tried to stand, and fell into him. He steadied her, and helped her back to where they'd been sitting.

When had that happened? Had it actually happened? The feel of warm blood on her hands had been real, but she'd felt that a thousand times, enough for her mind to dredge it up at any time. Had the Red Room implanted that memory in her? Maybe it wasn't real.

Maybe it was a cover for something worse.

She didn't _know_. Her mind had never spat such a vivid onslaught of venom. She didn't know how long she could stand it. She'd fought _so hard_ for sanity, for six long years. And now it seemed it was all for nothing. She felt the pressure of a sheathed knife against her arm, and pictured dragging the blade down her vein, ending all of this. Of the many deaths she'd been offered, it would be one of the quickest and most painless.

But she couldn't do that in front of Barton. She wouldn't repay the debt she owed him by forcing him to watch her die after all. And she wouldn't let the Red Room add her to their kill list, six years after the fact.

She pressed her hands flat against the cool floor, and suppressed a whimper.

“It's gonna be all right,” Barton said. “You're gonna get through this.”

She looked up. “What the hell do you know about it?” she snapped.

He looked honestly hurt-- _devastated_ , almost-- for half a second, and then his expression went back to normal.

“I could say that you're not the only one with nightmares, but instead I'm gonna point out that I read your file backwards and forwards after Coulson debriefed you, and if you've done all those things with the furniture breaking loose and sliding around in your head, I really don't think a little more chaos is going to stop you.”

She snorted. 'A little more chaos' was not an accurate way to describe feeling like someone was turning her brain inside out, watching her slowly bleed out from her head. The Red Room had killed every other trainee rather than let S.H.I.E.L.D. save them, and she _would not_ let them do the same to her. 

Or had it been something else? The other trainees would have been convinced S.H.I.E.L.D. was a threat, and they'd been taught to win at all costs, to knock down a sister-in-arms if need be, but to defend each others' backs savagely against all other comers. A-- a _mercy killing_? Oh, God, that was so much worse than the thought that the Red Room had cold-bloodedly ordered the executions. She put her head down, and swallowed.

“What is your priority?” The man circled the table. She did not tense when he crossed behind her, because he would hit her if she betrayed any trace of fear.

“... to--”

He backhanded her, and her head snapped to the side. She straightened up immediately, and left her hands where they were instead of feeling for blood, because if she betrayed any weakness he would hit her again. “Too slow!”

“To complete my mission,” she said, quickly, but not too quickly, because if she showed emotion, if she reacted to the pressure, he would hit her again. 

“What if you have a broken leg?”

“My priority is to stabilize myself so that I may complete my mission.”

“What if your comrade has a broken leg?”

“My priority is to weigh her remaining contribution to the mission and act accordingly.”

“What if you have a broken leg and your comrade does not?”

“My priority is to stabilize myself so that I may assist my comrade in completing my mission.”

“What if your comrade decides to kill you?”

“My priority is to evaluate her assessment of my potential contribution to the mission and act accordingly.”

“Well done, Natalia.” His hand came down on her shoulder. Her adult self knew what came next, was suddenly free to act, and knocked his hand away.

“Romanova!”

That voice had no Russian accent. Her vision cleared-- she saw Barton with his hands up, not far from a defensive position. She stayed very still. “I'm sorry. I had a flashback.”

“I figured.” He lowered his hands.

She stared at him, because that memory had felt more real than the others, and she wasn't going to think about it. “Talk to me.”

His eyebrows went up. “'bout what?”

“Anything.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I talk, you keep your eyes on me. Deal?”

“Deal.”

He thought for a minute, brows furrowed. What was he going to say? She could tell many things about his superficial habits with a glance; she knew that he was quick on his feet, quick to think, and slow to speak. But for all her training, she didn't know much about him. It wasn't her; she'd seen him with other agents, and he was just as laconic then.

She'd thought about stealing his S.H.I.E.L.D. file, because she wanted to know what he thought she owed him. But whatever he _thought_ she owed him, she _did_ owe him his privacy. The part of her that was from the Red Room screamed loudly that her priority was to complete her mission, which meant doing whatever it took to stay alive, which meant that respecting her comr-- her colleague was unimportant. She liked to make the part of her scream. It felt like payback. But she needed that part to stay alive, too, because that was what S.H.I.E.L.D valued. That was what everyone valued. That was all she had. Without it, she was just an empty shell.

“Romanova?” Barton had one eyebrow raised.

“Sorry.” She focused on him.

“Flashback?”

“No. Just... having a moment.”

“My first mission with S.H.I.E.L.D. was tranquilizing two people into their condiments.”

“ _What?_ ”

He smirked. “I was riding escort with a piece of tech that needed to get from Oregon to Georgia. Our first day out, we ran into some protesters. They really had no idea what we were transporting, it wasn't actually a weapon, but...” He shrugged, as if to say, _But three out of four other convoys, they would have been right_. “They blockaded the road.”

“With what?”

“Cars. Felled trees. A downed hot-air balloon.”

“Was Coulson there?”

“No. He was on a rescue mission with the Duchess of Hälsingland. He had some words for the lead agent afterwards, though, that wouldn't have happened on his watch.”

“On a rescue mission _for_ the Duchess?”

“No, with. Anyway, the police turned up to arrest the protesters, but S.H.I.E.L.D claimed jurisdiction and wouldn't let them in, so it turned into a standoff. Meanwhile the protesters were singing all these weird peace songs and turning it into, I dunno, some damned hippie party. They even set up a barbecue. With tofu.”

“What?”

“Oregon,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“So what happened?”

“I only had two tranq arrows, and the lead agent was going back and forth about telling me who to shoot. Finally he told me to take down the guy in charge of the protesters, and the sheriff.”

“Not big on inter-agency cooperation.”

“Nope,” Barton agreed. “He was assigned as liaison to the National Weather Service, afterwards. That's about as low as you can get. Anyway, lead agent gives the go-ahead, it just so happened that the sheriff was about to take a nice big bite of a burger someone'd brought her, and the other guy was holding a plate of barbecue. Tofu... cue.”

“Your lead agent sounds like an ass.”

“Yep,” Barton said. “I nearly got shot, and it took us three more hours to get out of there. I decided that was the last stupid order I'd ever follow.”

That was illuminating. “Did you get the tech to Georgia?”

“Yeah. Hit an avalanche in Colorado and got ambushed in Arkansas, though.”

He told her about those two things, and then about being on the protection detail for the London Philharmonic as it was harboring a double agent-- a double agent that S.H.I.E.L.D had been protecting, for reasons that Barton didn't explain-- and hearing one of the best concerts in the world from the rafters.

“Then I had to shoot the clarinet player during the last piece. Kinda ruined it for me.”

She stretched. “How'd you meet Coulson?”

He gave her an indecipherable look. “Another day.”

“He seems...” She paused.

Barton raised his eyebrows a bit. “Yeah?”

“As they go,” she continued finally, “... decent.”

Barton nodded. “Coulson's all right.”

Suddenly, she smelled smoke. She looked around, but there was nothing out of place. Disoriented, she closed her eyes, which was a mistake. Immediately, she was in the middle of a burning hospital, the cries and screams of frightened, dying people all around her. 

She knew, instinctively, that she had set the fire.

_Panic is always the least helpful response to any situation_. She needed to get out. Her priority was to survive. Someone would be here to put the fire out soon-- but as she looked for a way out, she saw an inactive sprinkler, and knew without remembering that she had disabled them.

“Help me,” someone rasped from behind her. She turned, full of dread, to see a little boy trailing his IV tube, crawling because his feet--

She gagged. Someone grabbed her shoulder. She whirled, prepared to fight them off, and fell back to the warehouse. “Oh my God,” she whispered in Russian, and made herself breathe slowly until she could get her stomach under control.

When she noticed the real world again, Barton had his hand to his earpiece. “Sir, you gotta get us out of here, Romanova's going crazy.”

“I'm fine,” she tried to say, but all that came out was a shaky, “God.”

“Whatever they did to her head, it's getting worse.” Pause. “Well, it came _un_ fixed.” Pause. “No, sir.” Pause. “Copy.” He touched his earpiece again. “He's pulling strings. Someone'll get us soon.”

“Okay,” she said, and it actually came out as 'okay.' “Did he tell you to shoot me if I became a threat to you?”

“Yep.”

She laughed. “He really watches out for you.” 

“I'm not planning on it.”

What kind of fool would _admit that_ out loud? She eyed him. She had enough evidence by now to know that it was unwise to dismiss him as a fool. But at the same time, this was a man who had given up the high ground to talk her into surrendering. “Make it quick,” she said finally.

“I'm not--”

“That's all I'm asking, Barton. If you have to do it, make it quick. With a gun.”

He stared at her for a moment, indecipherable. Then he nodded. “All right.”

“Don't... pin me to the floor with an arrow and leave me to bleed out.”

He frowned, hard. “Did someone do that to you?”

“The Red Room had no archers.”

“Did another archer do that to you.” His voice was sharp.

She stared. “No. It was just an example.” 

“Promises don't mean much in our line of work,” Barton said finally. She didn't understand what had just happened, but it seemed to be over. “But I can't think of any reason I would do that to anyone.” He paused. “Maybe one, but it doesn't involve you.”

She shrugged. “Good.”

The next flashback snuck up on her so smoothly she didn't notice until the wall of the warehouse exploded. She grabbed for her gun, but felt the smooth fabric of an evening gown. A hail of gunfire followed the explosion, and she rolled out of the way, sheltering behind a cubicle wall. Why didn't she have any weapons?

The smoke cleared. The bottom dropped out of her stomach. She shrank back, staying motionless in the shadows, but the woman looked right at her and smirked. “Did you really think you could get away?”

Natalia vaulted over the edge of the cubicle and charged forward, striking the older woman in a nerve cluster that should have immobilized her, but her opponent just laughed and threw her to the ground. _This isn't real_ \-- she attacked again only to have her blows deflected with impossible speed-- _She hasn't aged a day_ \-- But the woman easily overpowered her, pinned her, and took out a syringe. “Welcome back,” she whispered in Natalia's ear as the bite of the needle--

Natalia convulsed, and got a blow in somewhere, scrabbling towards a knife whose pressure she could feel on her thigh--

Sudden movement, and the smell of smoke was gone. She brought her hand up to her neck. It felt untouched. Then her brain tracked the movement to its source, and her eyes picked out Barton's wary crouch. She looked down. Her hand was on the hilt of her knife. She reached over with her other hand, and unclenched her fingers. “I just hallucinated that I was injected with a hallucinogen.”

“I think you should hand over your weapons.” Barton's voice was slow, and careful, as if he were talking to a child, not a reasonable person.

Her hand reclenched. “No.”

“You're dangerous with them.”

“No fucking shit, Barton, I'm an assassin.”

His lips twitched, just a little, and then his face grew serious again. “You keep on like this, you're going to put a bullet in one of us. Or attract attention we can't afford.”

He had a point. Her weapons were disappearing in her hallucinations, anyway. She relaxed her hand--

A tiny shift telegraphed Barton's lunge in advance. She rolled, relying on deeply-engrained reactions rather than thought, and deflected his reach partway. They grappled-- two ideas forced their way past instinct. One, Barton was hopelessly outmatched. Two, if she started hallucinating like this, she could kill him before she knew what she was doing.

She stopped fighting. His next attack, made in anticipation of a block that never came, brought them both to the ground. “Take it. Take my gun.”

He reached across her body to take the gun out of its holster, without arguing. “And your knives?”

“If you think I'm letting _you_ remove them--” _I'll break your fingers._ No _._ She rolled away from him and removed the four knives in ankle sheaths. “That was incredibly stupid, Barton.” _Fool_.

“Yeah,” he agreed. How much difference did it really make? They both knew, as she'd just demonstrated, that if she wanted them back, she could easily take him in a hand-to-hand fight. 

“Do you have any more stories?” she asked.

Barton told her about the mission that had left him holed up for three days inside a children's petting zoo in Cheyenne, Wyoming. The pain in her lower back changed, and she frowned, feeling for the long gash. Was it bleeding again?

“The zookeeper's daughter--” Barton broke off. “Problem?”

“Maybe.”

“Let me have a look at your back.”

She lay down on her stomach and pulled up her top. “Yeah,” he said, “some of the stitches are out.” Probably from fighting for her gun. “I can put--”

“No.” Letting someone hold her down and put a needle in her was asking for catastrophe, right now.

“You've lost a lot of blood already. We've got hours until medical gets here.”

“Just put my hand on the right spot. I'll try to stop the bleeding.”

Instead Barton retrieved the jacket, and pressed it to the wound. She forced herself not to tense. Nothing good had ever come from being held down by a man, or from being in a vulnerable position like this. She took deep breaths, and counted, and relaxed, in a fashion, after a while. “What happened with the zookeeper's daughter?”

He finished the story, and eased up the pressure on her back. “I think it's stopped.”

“Thank you.” She rested her head on her arms. Her head seemed stable, for the moment, and she was exhausted.

“Sure.” He walked around to where she could see him and leaned against a desk, wrists resting on his knees. “You got any stories?”

“They all end the same way.”

“Even since you came to S.H.I.E.L.D?”

She shrugged carefully. “You know all those already,” she said. “We don't all run into condiment-wearing public servants on our first missions.”

He smiled, and told her another story, about two weeks in Azerbaijan. By the end, her eyelids were drooping. _I need to stay awake._ But she was weak from pain and blood loss. Maybe if she weren't so exhausted, she'd have a better chance of fighting off the flashbacks--

She was strapped to a table, her arms, legs, and neck immobilized. She knew she was dreaming, but she couldn't do anything about it. She couldn't even see the rest of the room, but she heard their voices-- the doctors, and a cool, cultured female voice. “She's been disobedient,” the woman said. “Take out everything that's unnecessary.”

Then the saw started.

A hand clamped over her mouth--

A hand clamped over her mouth. She bit down, hard, and flailed against the restraints-- but there weren't any.

“Shit!” Barton's voice, speaking English, not Russian.

“Sorry,” she panted. She rubbed her forehead, not convinced she was awake until her fingers touched whole skin and didn't come away bloody.

“You were screaming,” he said.

“Yeah.” She could still feel the pain, hear the buzz... “Did I draw blood?”

“Yeah.” She heard the quiet splashing of water-- he must be rinsing the bite mark with the water bottle.

She licked her lips. “Barton.”

“Yeah?”

She took a deep breath, then another. These words she was about to say, they were an irrevocable demonstration of trust. They were a terrible idea. She said them anyway. “Do you have any tranq arrows with you now?”

“No.”

Something about his voice-- she tilted her head, and looked back. “If you had, would you have used them on me already?”

“Yes.” 

So-- the one person she'd been prepared to trust was just as willing to stab her and drug her as everyone else. But. None of the others had ever been honest about it. Did that make it better? If _he'd_ been going crazy and biting _her_ , she would have sedated him in an instant. But she'd never been under the illusion that she was trustworthy.

She blinked, and was in a prison cell, soft footsteps echoing around her. Water was dripping from the stone walls, and mold and moss grew in long streaks. The only other features of the cell were a set of heavy bars across the front, and a bucket. The only light came in the front, from dim lanterns set every fifty feet or so in the corridor.

Her stomach was churning. She looked down: she was bleeding, slowly but steadily, from a knife in her thigh. Lacking other options, she stripped off her top and wrapped it around the wound. Then she surveyed the cell. The only way out was the front; sooner or later, someone would come to open it, and she would take them down.

She tried to stand, from where she sprawled on the filthy floor, and realized with a blinding wave of pain that her hamstrings had been cut.

_Panic-- panic is always_ , she tried to tell herself, but the animal terror wouldn't be thwarted, and she collapsed back to the ground, everything going black.

She woke up back in the warehouse, and felt a wave of relief.

Except she could still see the bars of the prison cell.

She looked down at her thigh, and frowned. Her vision was getting hazy around the edges. “Barton?”

“Yes.” 

Wherever he was, she couldn't see him. She might have been hallucinating his voice. “Is there, or is there not, a knife sticking out of my left thigh?”

There was a pause. “There is not.” He moved into her line of sight. He looked concerned.

“Good to know.” She slumped against the desk. It was cold, suddenly, and if she listened carefully she could hear the drip of water off of stone walls, onto stone floor... but the walls and floor of the warehouse were wooden. “Pass me your jacket?”

Barton handed it to her. She shrugged into it, carefully, and zipped it up. “Have you ever been in prison?”

“No.” His voice was flat.

She smelled mildew, but she didn't think it was real. The skin of her thigh was unbroken, but if she tried to look too closely at it, her vision wavered, and her head hurt. _What's happening to me?_ Her heart sped up. If she couldn't depend on her senses, then all her skills were useless. “Any word from Coulson?” She tried to sound casual.

“No.”

Even once they got out, there was no guarantee S.H.I.E.L.D. would know how to stop this. What if their solution involved tampering with her memories? What if--

Her stomach heaved; her control over her body was nearly gone after a long mission, blood loss, and hours of hallucinations. _I will get through this_. _I have gotten through everything else. The Red Room could not kill me no matter how hard they tried. I will not let them succeed now_. If she had to, she would break out of S.H.I.E.L.D and go rogue again, hole up long enough to sweat this out again, or find someone she could pay to fix her head.

If she couldn't be fixed, then she would reassess.

She heard soft footsteps, but Barton didn't look up; they were in her head. The guard coming back, no doubt. Where was that prison? It wasn't anywhere she'd ever been. The hallucinations had been a mix of places real and imaginary; had it simply been chosen to represent a place from which she couldn't escape? _Fuck that_. _I'd get out of there if I had to drag myself along on my arms_.

Chosen to represent a place from which she couldn't escape: her own phrasing sent a shiver down the back of her neck. Was this random, or was some vestige of the Red Room's programming still active, trying to drive her to madness and self-destruction? Creating fictitious scenarios that took advantage of her-- she wouldn't call them fears. Trigger points? At first they'd been simple flashbacks, but now they were things that had never happened.

That she remembered.

“How long does it take to heal from having your hamstrings sliced?”

The regularity with which Barton was making that furrowed-eyebrow face was probably a bad sign. “I've never needed to know.”

“It would have to be a while,” she said, more to herself than to him. “Even after you healed, you'd have to work hard to regain your speed and agility. It would be a large chunk to cover up.” Which didn't necessarily mean it hadn't happened.

“You think you had your hamstrings sliced?”

“I'm not really sure.” Suddenly Barton had the face of a stranger, dressed in a dark green quasi-military uniform, peering in through the bars of the cell. But she could still feel the wood beneath her palms. “Make a face.”

“What?” It was still his voice.

“A weird face. Just do it, please.”

The guard's features started to shift, and then she was looking at Barton in the warehouse again, with eyes squeezed shut and nose wrinkled. He uncrinkled his face and stared at her. “That satisfactory?”

“Thanks.”

He continued to stare.

She swallowed. “The... flash... the hallucinations are pretty much continuous now.” 

He nodded. “Good to know.” Then he raised his left eyebrow. “You got any weapons you didn't tell me about, now would be a good time to find that out.”

She reached down to tug the knife out of her thigh, because she could easily turn that against him, before realizing it wasn't actually there. “No,” she said, and it was true. She really had given up all her weapons.

He told her another story, something about a hostage situation in the Falkland Islands that had ended with skidding down a slope of penguin guano. She tried to pay attention, but his voice faded in and out, mixing with the sounds of the prison-- and something else; she heard faint cries in the distance, but tried not to pay attention. It wasn't real, it was a trick her mind was playing on her, and the less she knew about it, the better...

Soon, the hallucination would become auditory and visual, and proprioceptive as well, and she'd be trapped in a waking nightmare with no way of escape. She jerked up and stared at Barton, and he broke off his story to squat beside her.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Romanova, listen to me, you're going to get out of this alive and intact. I will get you out of this alive.”

She licked her lips to wet them. “You can't promise that.”

“I just did.” There was no trace of mocking in his gaze, no softness, no compromise-- only intent. 

“There are worse things than being dead,” she said.

“Being alive is the base state. As long as you're alive, you can achieve anything else.”

“You know that for a fact?”

He slid down so he was sitting cross-legged. “I do.”

“Do you hear that?” she asked after a moment.

“Hear what?”

“The screaming.” It was getting louder.

“There's no screaming.”

“There's definitely screaming.” Was it the screams and shouts of someone trying to break in, or of someone being tortured? 

“It's in your head. It's not real.”

“Those two things aren't the same.”

“It's not actually happening to anyone.”

If she concentrated on his voice, the screaming receded to where she could barely hear it. “Tell me about the terrorist and the seal.”

She managed to pay attention and stay focused as he finished his story. Her vision was blurring, fading, crackling like lines of static on an old TV set. “I thought the cleaner was going to kill Coulson,” Barton concluded. “Coulson just smiled and said, 'I trust you'll do your usual excellent work', and when he got the thing back two weeks later you couldn't tell that anything had happened.”

She smiled faintly. 

“Sun's coming up,” he said. For a moment, her vision cleared, but she couldn't tell any difference in the darkness beyond the windows. She trusted his eyes better than her own, even when hers were working properly. “They'll be here soon to get us out.”

The prison was gone. Now she was walking on a battlefield, seeing the bodies of civilians, children, strewn everywhere. Someone of them were still dying, crying out in agony. Vultures were busy ripping cooling flesh to shreds. Somehow, she knew that she'd done this. “I've never killed that many people,” she muttered. “Not with a gun.”

“Come again?” Barton said, and the vision faded. But even if she hadn't pulled the trigger, something she'd done, some information she'd stolen for her masters in the Red Room, or later for money, could have done that. It would be more surprising if she _hadn't_ caused a scene of carnage like that, at least once. It was what she did. It was who she was. The blood had stained her hands so deeply she didn't think she could ever wash it off, even if she tried.

She was crouched in a small, hot room; the air conditioning had broken. She was holding a knife the length of her middle finger, and her hands were spattered to the wrists with blood. Her shirt was stained, too. The man had jerked, just as she'd slit his throat, and instead of a neat incision she'd made a two-inch-long gash that had sprayed blood everywhere. Now she would have to clean up before she could get out, which would push back her whole timetable. It was time to move.

She glanced at the body cooling in the corner. He'd wasted his last words on, “But I loved you.” What a blindly sentimental way to die.

_She_ wasn't going to waste any time on sentiment, or regrets, not when she was shackled at the bottom of a pit with water pouring in. She'd taken the key off the man who had locked her up, which had earned her a chuckle and a punch to the face from his boss, who hadn't seen but had known anyway. She could slip the cuffs if she could dislocate her thumbs, but it was freezing and she could barely feel anything past her wrists. The water was up to her neck, she took a deep breath and pulled free of one cuff, but the other was at an awkward angle on her wrist, and her lungs were already starting to burn from the thin air at this altitude. She needed to breathe-- she couldn't get free, the water was over her head, she reflexively inhaled but stopped before she got water in, but her lungs were demanding that she breathe, she started to choke, the pain in her wrist was intense but she couldn't get free-- everything was black--

She woke in the warehouse with her cheek stinging from a light slap. “Sorry,” Barton said. “You weren't responding to anything else.”

She could see and hear the warehouse, and not anything else. She brought her hands up in front of her face. Both of them were unharmed. She wiggled her thumbs: definitely not dislocated.

But her shoulder was-- no. No, that was not right. It was not true.

“Keep it together,” Barton said. “Not too much longer.”

“It's not going to stop just because S.H.I.E.L.D shows up.”

“It will get better.”

“How do you know?”

“Eventually, everything either gets better, or you die.”

“Have you ever thought about a second career as a motivational speaker?”

He nodded. “I'm keeping it on the list for when I get too decrepit to shoot.”

She shrugged, then sobered. “You... should... probably tell S.H.I.E.L.D to bring restraints.” She had to force the words out, because she couldn't stand the thought-- but it was better than accidentally killing someone. She'd never be free of the blood, but she could promise herself that she'd never kill another person without knowing what she was doing and acting of her own volition.

Well, no, she couldn't really promise that. But she could try.

He gave her a look. “I already did.”

That was... good. She repeated that, as if it would be more convincing with further thought.

Then the extraction team showed up, and Barton disappeared in the chaos, and four medics picked her up and slid her onto a stretcher. Her back protested. “Careful, I've got stitches--”

One of them gagged her as two others slid restraints onto her left side. She reared up, and took one of them out with a kick from her free leg, but then her limbs stopped responding to her and as she fell back, hard, against the stretcher, she saw the fourth medic holding a syringe. Her vision swam, and then a voice said, “Prep her. We need to take everything that's bad, out,” and then she heard the saw...

She slammed back into her own body with a gasp. Barton was talking, and her head was resting against something soft. Whatever it was, she couldn't see it, or anything else. “-- one looks like a... maybe a whale?” he said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” she demanded. She could hear, and it was what she had meant to say.

“You back? Good. I was describing the clouds. Sunrise's made them all pretty.” He paused. “The whale's purple,” he added.

She felt herself shake with laughter.

“Hey, it's not the most visually stimulating of environments, and I'm out of stories.”

There was something warm resting against her upper arm-- his hand, she thought. “Barton?”

“Yeah.” His voice was right above her head.

“I can't see.”

“At all?”

“At all,” she confirmed.

“Don't worry. I've got good eyes.”

Then her vision-- “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“I... I can see, but I don't think it's... real...” was the last thing she said, before everything went white, and then faded back to normal, except it was a normal where all the visions were jumbled together, and she was strapped down to a stretcher on the battlefield, hooked in to a dozen hellish concoctions that were keeping her alive, and in the background was the whine of heavy weaponry, except it sounded a lot like a bone saw, and she writhed and arched and shook her head, trying to clear her vision, and dug the palms of her hands into her eyes, blinking rapidly, but nothing helped, nothing made it go away. She stuffed her hand in her mouth because otherwise she was going to scream as the needle and the saw came closer and closer, and she was the only patient left alive in an operating theater with twelve beds, the others had died under the knife or at her hands, there was a knife in her hand, she reached up to use it on the doctor but the doctor turned and had her face--

“Shit, Romanova!” Someone was speaking, the voice was familiar, it made her feel better, but she couldn't find the speaker or place the voice. She stayed her hand, confused-- _I have to strike--_ but the doctor, the Red Room's doctor, had her face-- and then the doctor smiled and peeled off her face and it was no longer herself, but Her, and she laughed and took the knife out of Natalia's hand, and plunged a probe into her right eye, and Natalia screamed, and through the screaming she saw, with her remaining eye, a projection appear in the air--

“Take out everything that's infected,” She said. The projection was of Natalia's brain, and most of it was colored a virulent red, with only tiny regions of safe white, and the saw--

“You're drawing blood!” It was the other voice, the safe voice, that wasn't Her and never would be. She could move her arms, her eyes were both whole though they weren't working-- “here,” the voice, Barton, continued. “Move your hand. Romanova. If you can hear me, take your hand out of your mouth.”

Awareness of her body returned fully, and seemed accurate. She pulled her hand out of her mouth. It was stinging.

She felt his hands fumbling at the bottom of her throat. “I'm going to put part of my jacket into your mouth.” There was a _zip_ ping noise. “It'll be better to stop you from screaming. You're drawing your own blood.”

She nodded. Something dry and salty-tasty was in her mouth. She... 

Everything faded to static and white noise, and she was aware of strong pain all over her body, like fire in her veins and arteries, but it was also more detached than it should be, and she wasn't sure if she was more concerned or relieved. “... Romanova,” she heard, as if through a bad connection, and then nothing more.

She was slowly, slowly falling, as if to the bottom of a tank of water. Images flashed across her vision, disconnected bits. She watched herself shoot a young woman in front of her children, and then strangle a man with his own tie. She saw a group of doctors cut open a girl's brain in an underground room. She watched eight identically blank-faced teenage girls practicing ballet against a barre. She saw a door, a gun, a set of bloodstained papers...

Everything stopped.

Romanova.

That word was familiar. Why was it sparking things within her, and making her struggle back to the top of the tank? It was a word that described her, but it wasn't _assassin_ or _killer_ or _machine_. It was a neutral word.

Name. It was her name.

It was her name, and someone was calling her. “Romanova!”

She'd never heard that particular tone in Barton's voice before. She didn't know how she knew where she was or who he was, but she knew that she knew. “Mmm.”

“Our ride's here. Just hang on.” Her neck cooled, suddenly, and then there was something solid against her shoulders, and under her knees. She was moving-- through the air-- Barton was carrying her. 

“Don't let me hurt them,” she whispered. The jarring footsteps became the hoofbeats of a donkey that she was slung across, hands and feet tied, she was only thirteen and she'd been kidnapped by... who? A rival group of assassins, but the Red Room had tracked them down, taken them alive, and made her kill all of them slowly as punishment for being taken in the first place. Or maybe it hadn't happened that way, but she had the memory now.

The screams and blood were that of the young woman dying in front of her children, but how had she gotten that blood on her hands, she'd pulled the trigger from a distance, it was the woman who had the blood on her hands, her own blood, trying to keep it inside of her, and so did her little daughter who was screaming and applying pressure and someone was going to hear her and Natalia was all three of them at once, herself and the mother and the girl, and her head was splitting--

And she was back on the operating table and her head was splitting--

“Nice morning, about fifty degrees,” Barton said, “daylight now--”

Why was he rambling? He never rambled. They'd gotten to him, too, cut open his head and made him their puppet--

She was leading a group of mercenaries against a compound in Brazil, and when she'd gotten the flash drive and the backup copy, and all the soldiers had died, and the mercenaries lined the children up against the wall, she looked away--

“Helicopter--”

She looked away and saw flames, a hospital was burning, why was this so familiar, why had she killed so many children--

Her back jarred against a soft surface, and then the whole world was tilting, and her vision went grey again, but she could hear people around her, who was it, was it the doctors, was it _Them_?

“-- two medics, four soldiers, and a pilot,” Barton said. “We've reached a thousand feet--”

He was being her eyes, because she couldn't see.

She held on to that flash of lucidity. For a moment she inhabited her body again, and she felt strong hands gripping her arms, bracing her, as the world floated and tilted. Barton's voice was in her ear.

The last clear thing she heard was “ETA seven minutes,” and then the world was dissolving around the edges, running down in soft rivulets of grey sound.

Once the world had gone, and there was only darkness, sharp orange pain blossomed. Someone convulsed and writhed, trying to escape.

She's ours, one assassin told another.

“She's flatlin--”

New pain: purple, bruise-colored. A blow rather than a fire. Someone arched off the bed.

“Prep her for--”

She's ours.

“Code bl--”

She's mine.

“Oh my G--”

She's Hers.

“I've never seen-- what--”

She's hers.

*

It was possible to be alive.

 

Someone was alive.

 

Someone was she.

 

That was enough. She sank back into oblivion.

*

She broke the surface, gasped for air, and realized she had a body.

It couldn't move much; there was something down her throat, and up her nose, many somethings stuck into her skin. She gagged, and regretted it.

“Easy,” said an unfamiliar, soothing voice. “Easy, ma’am. You're all right.”

Her current situation was definitely not all right, and yet--

She believed the voice. She drifted away.

*

The tubes up her nose and down her throat were gone. She breathed cool air that smelled of antiseptic.

Sound existed, she realized again, and heard a steady chorus of atonal beeps.

“Awake?”

She could twitch her fingers.

Her throat felt terrible. Thirst-- that feeling was thirst. “Wt,” she croaked.

Whoever was talking to her was a mind reader. She felt her back tilt and lift, and someone held a cup to her lips. She tried desperately to drink, only to discover it was full of ice chips.

She sucked up as many as she could before the cup was taken away. “Take it easy,” said the same, soothing voice. “Take it easy. You're all right. We don't want you to choke.”

“What happened,” she whispered. There was something at the back of her mind, an absence, she needed to run--

“Shhhh,” said the soothing voice. “You came through fine.”

“Came through what,” she asked, and fell asleep again.

*

She was staring at a ceiling.

It took her a while to realize this, after she opened her eyes. Between the realizing and the realizing that she'd realized, she lost more time.

“Apparently you're a medical miracle.”

She turned her head-- she could turn her head-- and saw a nondescript man in a nondescript suit sitting by the side of bed. She stared. He was familiar. He was... waiting. She dragged the name out of the cobwebs. “Coulson,” she said finally.

He looked pleased. “Welcome back, Ms. Romanova.”

That name-- “Why am I a medical miracle?”

“You died once before we got you here and twice on the operating table. The doctors said the Red Room programmed you much more thoroughly than anyone realized. They didn't want any of their toys going off and playing on their own. You never should have survived the initial detox.”

She processed this. “Then why am I alive?”

He shrugged. “Their best theory is sheer force of will.”

She nodded, slowly.

Then panic struck. She was vulnerable, in a strange hospital, she needed to get her back to something get intel get out--

Except her wrists and ankles were fastened to the bed.

“Let me out,” she said through her teeth.

“No,” Coulson said.

She glared at him. 

“You died three times, Natalia. If I let you out you're going to do something stupid like hide in the air vents.”

“Explain,” she demanded. There were huge gaps in her memory, and they were collapsing in on themselves, but not fast enough to suit her--

“You were in Amsterdam, with Agent Barton. Do you remember?”

“Barton,” she repeated. The name was familiar on her lips, as if she'd been using it as a prayer.

“You frightened him.”

That piece clicked, and she looked up. “Did I hurt him?”

She thought Coulson looked surprised, but if she'd ever been able to read him well, that piece was still missing. “Not that he's told me.”

“Good.”

“Apparently the warehouse the two of you found yourselves in was very similar to the one where you underwent detox, and it triggered flashbacks.”

She wet her dry lips. “Yes.” Her mind was still trying to catch up, still sifting through the conversation--

_Wait._

“ _Operating_ ,” she said, “ _table_?” With conscious effort she kept her fists from clenching-- if she needed to slip her cuffs, she needed her hands loose.

“The Red Room had three ways to keep their operatives under control,” Coulson began.

She counted her breaths, and fought back the rage-panic.

“The monthly injections. Psychological programming, which went far deeper than anyone knew. And a chip implanted in your head.”

_Operating table. Chip_ \-- “You _cut my head open_.” She made her voice sound like her own through sheer effort.

“We had to, to save your life.”

There was a memory she was missing, something about saws, but she didn't have to know it to know it was very bad. Her thumbs moved in towards her palms, she rolled her ankles--

Coulson's hand came down firmly on her wrist. “Don't do that. You'll hurt yourself.”

It was the single most inane thing she had ever heard the man say. As he looked down at her, the computer that always ran in her head-- some gifts of the Red Room were too permanent to remove-- calculated how easily she could break free of his grip.

With his other hand, he took out a syringe from his inside pocket. _Syringe, no, shit--_ she tensed-- “I will sedate you,” he said, and meant it.

“No, you won't,” she said, and meant it too.

Neither of them moved. She thought of two different ways to use her body's leverage to knock him out. Then he returned the syringe to his pocket, and picked up a small glass jar from the table next to her. It held a tiny, matte grey, semicircular wafer. He held it so she could see it, turning it slowly.

“Your brain activity was unstable enough for the warehouse to trigger flashbacks, and the flashbacks caused the remains of the psychological programming to activate,” he said. “The doctors think the chip had mostly run down, but the neural cascade activated its emergency reserves and it started wreaking havoc with your memory centers. It was meant as a kill switch. It nearly worked.” He released her wrist with his other hand. “The doctors said they'd never seen anything like it. They called it a neurological impossibility. It didn't show up on any of the scans we did before. Engineering had to create a new machine even to confirm the thing was there.”

She tore her gaze away from the tiny, tiny device. “I want all the files.”

“You'll have them,” he promised. “S.H.I.E.L.D. will give you funds to see a private neurologist, to get a second opinion.”

She wasn't going to go to anyone S.H.I.E.L.D. chose, but he didn't need to know that. 

“How's your head?” He sat back down, returning the jar to the table.

She frowned. “I'm still missing some things,” she said. “It's like... it's like there was a radio on low in the background, and someone turned it off.”

He nodded. “There's something else you need to know. The doctors are still working it out, but apparently the remains of the programming were keeping a framework of false memories in place. You might find some things coming back to you in bits and pieces. Or some things might be missing.”

“How much will I get back?”

“They don't know. Not all of it.” He paused. “They offered to find a way to erase anything conflicting--”

“Fuck no.”

He nodded. “That's what I told them.”

For the first time since she'd died, she felt like smiling. “Really? Those exact words?”

He smiled back. “Maybe not.”

She unsmiled. “No one's opening up my head again. I'm adding that to my list of conditions for employment with S.H.I.E.L.D.” Right up there with 'no missions that depend on me having sex,' and 'no more killing children.' Many of the flashbacks had been about killing kids. She didn't remember them clearly, for which she was very, very grateful. And she didn't know how many had been true. But enough of them had been true. That bothered her more than it had before.

“You might want to add an exception for brain tumors,” Coulson pointed out.

She frowned at him. “I've never expected to live long enough for that to be a problem.”

“Blows to the head. Swelling.”

“Mmm.” He had a point there.

“You should get some rest.”

“I've been resting.”

“No, you've been not dying. Equally important, but not quite the same.”

“Get me that file.”

He nodded. “I will.” He stood. “Is there anything you need?”

She shook her head. She was alive, and sane; that was enough for her. “Coulson!” she called after him.

He turned back at the door.

“How pissed off is Dr. Rosie?”

His lips twitched, and then he broke into a full-fledged, rueful smile. _That_ was a particularly interesting expression. She added it to her file of 'things jointly about Coulson and Dr. Rosales.' “Enough.”

When he was gone, she tried to systematically go through her memories and see if they felt different, but she fell asleep. She woke disoriented, still fastened to the bed. She fought off panic, then succumbed to irritation. She seriously contemplated slipping her cuffs. Instead, she scrutinized her body, tensing and releasing muscle groups to check for damage. The stitches were still in her lower back, but the healing skin didn't hurt as much when shifting tugged at the stitches. She wasn't dizzy any more. She had too many tubes in her and probes on her, but despite their presence and the fact that she was strapped down, she felt no more than normal panic. The walls of the room didn't flicker and fade around her.

A nurse came by to check her vitals. “Let me out,” Natalia said. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“I'll get you a bedpan.”

“No. I want a toilet.”

“You're still very weak. You shouldn't be up.”

“It's five feet away. If I fall, you can say 'I told you so.'”

The nurse hesitated. “You're considered a security risk.”

“I can't be both too weak to move five feet and strong enough to be a security risk,” Natalia argued.

In the end, the nurse undid the cuffs, detached the connection from the electrodes to the monitor, and helped her wheel her IV pole into the tiny bathroom. Natalia looked down. Her right hand was still bandaged, but when she looked under the gauze, her fingers were half-healed. She was pleased that her legs supported her without shaking, but after she used the toilet and washed her face, she was grateful to lie down again. The nurse returned, and brought her water and a bowl of something... wiggling.

She stared at him. “What is that?”

“Haven't you ever had jello before?”

“No.” She poked the dish with one finger to watch it... bounce. “Are you sure this doesn't violate the Geneva Convention?”

The nurse frowned. “If you don't want it, I'll refasten you, and you can stay on the IV longer.”

“No, I'll.” She poked it again. “Try it.”

It tasted like someone had tortured a strawberry and then added sugar, but she was glad to have something in her stomach, and devoured it hungrily. When she asked for more, the nurse said they had to see if she could keep that down first.

“I'm not going to throw up,” Natalia insisted, but he told her to drink her water. Then he refastened her wrists and ankles. Her breathing didn't change, because she was together enough now not to give anything away like that, but she wanted out. She could have gotten out, but she was trying to play nice. She stared at the ceiling and checked out her head again. There were a lot of gaps in her memory, but for the first time, she could tell that everything she could remember was true. That was novel.

Her head started to pound. Was this going to happen every time she tried to remember the past? A new S.H.I.E.L.D medic, this one wearing the badge of the psychiatric unit, came in, checked the monitor, and sternly ordered her to rest. “Your brain nearly killed you just three days ago,” she said. “You need to give it time to heal. Here.” She scribbled something on the clipboard, then uncuffed Natalia's right hand and offered her pills.

She looked at them suspiciously. “What are these?”

“They're a mild painkiller and sedative, targeted specifically towards the type of brain waves that are still most unstable for you.”

Natalia took them, on the theory that if S.H.I.E.L.D wanted to screw with her head they'd had ample opportunity already, and ell asleep.

Time settled into an unpleasant pattern. She slept, woke up, was let out to use the bathroom, ate, drank, stared at the ceiling, tried to get her memory back, and fell asleep. After the third iteration she demanded a clock.

“The absence of a clock is designed to be soothing,” the nurse-- a new nurse-- said.

“Deprivation of a sense of passing of time is a way to soften someone up for torture,” she retorted. When she woke up, there was a clock.

After the fifth iteration, where she tried to give herself a sponge bath in the bathroom and collapsed on the toilet, she found herself thinking about Barton. He'd been... kind? Was that what kindness was? He hadn't left her for dead, he hadn't shot her, and he'd helped her hang on to her sanity for as long as possible. At the end, he'd probably been the only thing standing between her and a complete, violent, irreversible and messy detachment from reality. She probably owed him her life, again. What the _hell_ did he want in return?

She was a spy. She could figure it out.

* 

She woke up and jumped. Dr. Rosales was sitting by her bed in a wheelchair, arms crossed, staring down at her.

“Hi,” Natalia said.

Dr. Rosales didn't say anything.

“You look better,” Natalia continued.

“You _don't_.”

She winced. Dr. Rosales sighed, and stopped looking like a thundercloud. “I'm sorry,” she said.

“What? Why?”

“Because it was my job to fix your head, and I missed this.”

“It... hadn't occurred to me to blame you.”

“How are you?”

Not _how do you feel_. Natalia thought the difference was significant. “Alive.”

“Oh, good. I was so conflicted on that point. I'm so relieved to discover you're not a flesh-craving revenant.”

Natalia stared.

“I really hate losing,” Dr. Rosales continued. Now that Natalia looked carefully, she saw that the doctor was thinner and paler, and looked tired.

“You're not dead. I'm not dead. I don't think this qualifies as loss.”

The doctor shook her head. “Maybe I'm just getting old.”

“How soon can I get out?” Natalia asked after a minute.

“We're not taking any chances this time. We're going to monitor your head for a while.”

Natalia groaned.

Dr. Rosales gave her a stern look. “Do you want to take the chance that we missed something _again_ , and that the next time will be even worse?”

Natalia subsided.

The doctor didn't stay long; she wasn't there to collect data, apparently. Natalia thought, again, about breaking out of the cuffs, but she was still so damned _tired_ , she just wanted to sleep...

She drifted off.

*

The next time Coulson came by, he wasn’t as conciliatory. “Why didn’t you tell anyone about the nightmares?”

“What nightmares?”

“The doctors interpreting your brain scans say you must have been having severe nightmares for some time. And headaches.”

“I always have nightmares.”

Coulson looked at her, and waited. He was pretty good at that look. He must have had a lot of practice on junior agents and, really, anyone in his vicinity.

“I always have nightmares,” she repeated. “It’s nothing I can’t deal with. I…”

He raised an eyebrow, and continued to wait. Whoever had trained him had been good. Silence was often the best interrogation tactic.

“I was afraid it was a bad sign. I was hoping they would go away.”

“It _was_ a bad sign, and if you had said something, we might have caught it earlier before your brain tried to melt out of your head.”

“Duly noted, Agent Coulson,” she muttered.

He wasn’t done. “Treatment is only effective if you cooperate with your doctors, which means telling them any unusual symptoms you’re experiencing.”

“Yes, all right, got it.”

“You died three times. You nearly threw away everything you and S.H.I.E.L.D. have worked so hard for, by keeping your mouth shut.”

“Well, I got my comeuppance, didn’t I,” she muttered. 

Coulson folded his arms across his chest, but subsided. “I’m not allowed to lecture you until you’re up. I understand that you have trust issues, Ms. Romanova. But we need to talk about them. I need to know that you’ll tell me when something’s wrong.”

“Something’s wrong. My brain tried to melt out of my head.”

“Yes, thank you, I knew about that one.” He frowned at her. “Get some rest. I can’t tell if you’re being irritating because you feel better or you feel worse.”

“That makes two of us,” she said cheerfully.

He gave her a quelling look, which didn’t quell her at all, and turned around. “Hey, Coulson,” she called after him.

He turned back. “Yes?”

“I, uh…” she licked her lips. “Sorry.”

His lips twitched. “Apology accepted, Ms. Romanova.”

*

“You have a visitor,” the nurse said.

“Do I have a choice?” she bit out.

“Yes,” Barton said from the doorway. She blinked. He was out of uniform, wearing jeans and a hoodie, and holding a plastic bag. He glanced around the room. 

“No, you can... um. You can come in.” It was embarrassing to be cuffed to the bed, but not nearly as embarrassing as having a complete mental breakdown in front of him.

“Thanks.” He took the chair by the bed, managing to give the impression of sprawling without taking up much space. “So.” He glanced around the room again.

She'd never known him to need two looks to take in the details of any situation. He was nervous-- whether because this was a social call and not a mission, or because she was cuffed to the bed in the psych ward, she couldn't tell. She frowned at the bruise on his jaw. “Did I-- I didn't give you that, did I?”

He touched it lightly. “No.” 

So he'd been out on a mission, and back again, already.

He picked up the bag by his feet, and dumped it on the bed. “I thought we could do a taste test.”

She stared at the collection of colorfully-wrapped candy bars on the sheets. Then she looked up at him. Then she looked back at the candy bars.

He leaned over and undid her cuffs. Immediately the tension in her head went down three levels, but she said, “Medical will make a fuss.”

“It's what they're best at.”

The nurse must have been watching: she appeared immediately. “Agent Barton, the patient must be--”

“She wanted to kill me, I'd be dead by now,” Barton said.

“You're _not_ the only person in this ward.”

“She wanted to kill you, you'd be dead by now, too.” He met the nurse's angry gaze calmly. “Romanova, what's the longest it's ever taken you to get out of restraints?”

“Starting from when they were put on?”

“Counting the time you were awake and actively trying.”

She thought for a moment. “Six minutes.”

“And you've been here...?”

“Awake? Two days.”

“See?” he told the nurse, with a cheerful grin. “You can all sleep soundly tonight. She doesn't want to kill you.”

The nurse sputtered, but left. 

“So,” Barton continued, taking out a pocketknife. “Which one first?”

It took Coulson twenty-five minutes to show up. When he arrived, they were debating the relative merits of the crunchiness of Twix versus the creamy center of a Milky Way. Barton cut off another piece of each and handed them to her. “I think it's the salt.” She chewed and swallowed. “In the caramel. The Milky Way needs more salt.”

“The best ones have two flavors,” Barton agreed, taking another bite of Mars Bar and talking with his mouth full.

Coulson came through the door. “You upset Medical,” he told Barton mildly. Coulson did everything mildly. She couldn't imagine him ever having a strong emotion, or getting thrown off-balance.

“The best ones have two flavors, sir,” Barton told him. “Snickers?”

“They actually called me,” Coulson said.

“They had it coming,” Barton said.

“Barton, Ms. Romanova is not a pawn to be exploited in your little war with Medical.”

“I've been exploited before, Agent Coulson. I can tell the difference.” She picked up the last bite of Almond Joy. “It usually involves more screaming, and less sugar.”

“Remember that you're at their mercy when you're unconscious on the operating table,” Coulson said to Barton. “I'm sure they're quite capable of making cosmetic changes while they're saving your life.”

She winced at that, tensed-- and then relaxed. Doctors making unilateral changes to their patients were one of her least favorite things to contemplate, but finally, she had an answer. If Barton's and Coulson's banter had all been a front, meant to trick her into trusting S.H.I.E.L.D., Coulson never would have brought up such a sensitive subject.

Barton stopped chewing, and stared up at Coulson. “You're just saying that to scare me.”

“I would never,” Coulson said. “Ms. Romanova, how are you feeling?”

“I want out of here.”

“You need to be monitored. Psych needs to make sure your brain is stable.”

“I'm sure they can do that remotely.”

“Possibly.”

“I don't do well with being tied up after brain surgery,” she warned him.

He tilted his head. “I'll take that into consideration. How are you _feeling?_ ”

She considered how to answer that. “I'm not dead.”

Coulson looked like he was trying not to smile.

“I'm not going crazy any more,” she added.

“Good.” He looked at his agent. “Barton, don't overstay your welcome, and don't make Medical call me again.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Coulson left. “Huh,” Barton said, when he had gone.

She looked from the doorway back to him. “What?”

Barton shook his head. “Nothing.” Then he made a face. “I don't have the stomach for sugar that I did when I was sixteen.”

She looked at the plethora of wrappers littering the bed, and had to agree. Not that she'd had much chance to indulge when she was sixteen, but there had been moments, when a mission required it.

“Here. You keep these.” He gathered up the remaining three, and handed them to her. 

She stuck them under her pillow. “Thanks.”

He stood, and stuffed the wrappers in the bag. “I'm off on a mission tomorrow. I'll see you around. Take care.”

“Thanks.” There were so many questions going through her mind, and she wasn't in any shape to get the answers subtly. “Barton.”

He stopped in the doorway, and turned. “Yeah?”

“What do you want from me?”

He looked exasperated, but... softly so. “How 'bout a month-long hiatus from that question? Does that work?”

“Mmm.” She narrowed her eyes.

“I don't want anything from you, Romanova.” He gave a vague wave, and retreated through the door.

*

They let her out of the psych ward after another day. They didn't let her return to normal activity for weeks.

They gave her larger quarters, possibly to compensate her for having to stay in them twenty-two hours a day. Her new room actually had a window. She could have climbed out and escaped, but she didn't want to. She didn't want to at _all_. The Red Room had tried, viciously, to kill her again. S.H.I.E.L.D. had saved her. She still didn't trust them, but she mistrusted them less.

Dr. Rosales came to visit her at least once a day. Natalia badgered her until she got permission to go to the gym once a day, mostly by dint of threatening to do really stupid things if she got bored. The hour she was permitted was usually the highlight of her day, but she was always exhausted afterwards. That was her other reason not to run away-- she was still healing, and she knew it.

She still had nightmares. These weren't accompanied by headaches, and they weren't like before. They were about Amsterdam, the second time, about feeling reality dissolve around her. She started a routine: whenever she woke up from one of these dreams, she would check each of her five senses in turn. Then she thought through everything she'd done the previous day. Those two things were usually enough to convince her that she wasn't losing her mind.

“You asked me if there was anything I needed, didn't you?” she asked Coulson, the next time he came by to check on her. He didn't come as frequently as Dr. Rosales, but she still saw him regularly.

“Yes. What is it?”

“Your library card.”

She had the distinct, rare pleasure of catching him flat-footed. “My what?”

“Your library card. From Columbia University. I know you have one.”

He folded his arms across his chest, and raised an eyebrow. “So what you're actually saying is, you want _books_ from Columbia.”

She shrugged. “I could always entertain myself, I suppose.”

There was a beat. “I'll send one of the interns who's on punishment detail.”

A few days later there was a parcel of books outside her door, an indiscriminate jumble of history and literature. She read them all, and the time passed much more quickly. She made sure Coulson noticed how much less she was grumbling. When she'd finished them all, he got her another parcel without arguing.

Finally, three weeks after they'd let her out of the psych ward, they sent her on a courier mission so simple a small child could have done it. At least they sent her alone. When she returned, they hooked her up to monitors for another twenty-four hours.

“Congratulations,” Coulson said, when she saw him next. “You've been cleared for light duty.”

“Thank _God_.”

“You'll be coming with me to Volgograd.”

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” She'd been recognized in the backwaters of Alabama; Russia was even riskier.

“This is a routine mission. You'll just be the muscle.”

She could easily do that. Sometimes she enjoyed the break from having to pretend so intensely to be someone else. He gave her the situation: he'd set up an appointment for 'negotiations' with an ex-Soviet colonel, and she would be his 'personal assistant.' Whatever muscle the colonel brought along would dismiss her as unthreatening.

Two days later she was in the cold, spare corridor of a blocky, concrete Soviet-era building; while inside the conference room, Coulson and the colonel were 'negotiating.' She hadn't seen the colonel. He'd gotten there first, and demanded that Coulson make his bodyguard wait outside. Coulson had insisted that _his_ bodyguards also wait outside; after a tense moment, four burly men had filed into the corridor, where they'd leered at her. She was dressed the part of a personal assistant, in a business-like dress and heels. She even had a PDA as a finishing touch. She pretended not to speak Russian, and ignored them; after a few minutes, they ignored her, too.

Which was a mistake. Five minutes later, she was looking down at the four incompetent men, unconscious and bound at her feet. She'd used their own duct tape to tie them up-- it wasn't great, but it was better than nothing. The fact that they'd had it with them implied the colonel was intending to kidnap Coulson and hold him as a hostage. You didn't need to restrain a corpse.

The negotiations were deteriorating. She could hear the colonel's voice getting louder. She pictured the type, grizzled, corpulent, and filled with a sense of his own importance. Right about now, he was probably trying to loom over Coulson to intimidate him, and when that inevitably failed—

“ _Georgei!_ ” he bellowed.

That was her cue. She fastened her gun on her right hip and pushed the door open. “I’m afraid your assistants have been detained.” Then she saw the colonel--

– and recognized him.

He didn't notice the hitch in her breathing. She pasted on a smile that had a passing resemblance to sweetness as she surveyed the details of the room, the placement of the furniture, and all the relevant distances involving her, Coulson, the door, and the colonel. She filed them away. The colonel wasn’t corpulent.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, glancing at her, and then dismissing her.

“Did I fail to introduce _my_ personal assistant?” Coulson said with a faint smile.

He turned, and gave her a more thorough look, scowling. The Red Room had sent her after him when she'd been fourteen, or maybe fifteen. But not to kill him. He'd been a hoarder of information even then. Apparently that hadn't changed.

She knew the moment when he recognized her. “Good God,” he gasped. “No, it’s can't— they were all—“ He leaned away from her. 

She didn’t move at all, just let her smile grow a little more manic. She wanted to throw up. She wanted to kill him, slowly. Instead she said, “Is this client giving you trouble, sir? If you give me a few minutes alone I’m sure we can work something—“

“ _No!_ ” the colonel said. “I’ll tell you, I'll give you whatever you want, just keep her away from me!”

Coulson let a beat go by, his gaze fixed on the colonel. Then he said, “Would you excuse us.”

She looked from Coulson to the colonel, and considered the benefits and drawbacks of incapacitating Coulson, tying up the colonel, and removing his non-essential body parts first. She was skilled; she could keep him alive for a long time, especially if she could find something to use for cauterization.

But someone would notice Coulson’s absence. She couldn’t count on having the time to make it really satisfying. Obediently, she stepped outside. When she closed the door behind her she slumped against the wall, sweating. That wasn’t acceptable. She got her body under better control, and checked the hallways for any sign of more unwelcome visitors.

Before long, a squad of S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers arrived. They hauled away the bodyguards, probably to let them wake up in a police station, and escorted the colonel, handcuffed, out of the room. She and Coulson followed; they took the colonel to the nearest airstrip, and loaded him on a short, stubby jet. She heard something about 'safe house' and 'hard drive,' and guessed the soldiers were taking him to his cache. She and Coulson boarded another plane. As soon as they strapped in, Coulson busied himself with a tablet. She would have a report to write, too, but it wouldn’t amount to much: _Knocked out four hapless guards, intimidated a former… mark._

The anger and the shakiness started to return. _No_. She studied her surroundings, a basic trick for calm and distraction. The emergency equipment was in place, the patterns on the seats were uninspired, the loud hum of the engines was punctuated by occasional chatter from the pilot and co-pilot, and the deck below her feet was vibrating.

Coulson held out his jacket. She took it with a muttered word of thanks; the jet wasn’t well-insulated, and her dress provided little warmth. When she took the garment, he looked up. “Need a bucket?”

She bit back a curse, both at him for his interference, and at herself for losing control of her body enough that her nausea showed. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry about the encounter back there. I didn’t realize there was a connection.”

“I didn’t tell you in my debriefing.” He hadn't asked about anything before her escape from the Red Room. And she hadn't remembered this man until she'd seen him again.

“You handled it well,” Coulson said. “That couldn’t have been easy.” His tone was mild and conciliatory, but she heard condescension and pity in it.

“Facing down a blustering ex-Soviet colonel?” she scoffed. “You don’t know anything.”

When he spoke again, his voice was gentle. “I know that whatever the Red Room sent you to him for, it wasn't killing him.”

She _hated him_ for putting those pieces together, for making the connection to the colonel, for his pity, for knowing, for all of it. “Go to _hell_.” She turned away.

She hurried down the ramp as soon as it lowered, but hesitated by the hangar door, watching Coulson. Another agent had met him at the bottom of the ramp with urgent business, and they were standing in the middle of the hangar, talking. Finally the other agent nodded and went away, and Coulson resumed walking.

He saw her at the doorway, but didn't stop until she said, “Coulson.”

He turned, waiting politely.

She considered the absolute minimum number of words needed to communicate what she wanted to say. The mission where she'd met the colonel had been a failure: she'd gotten the information the Red Room had sent her for, but he hadn't been taken in by her cover story as a seductive undergraduate researcher. He'd known exactly who she was and where she'd come from. He'd given her the information as a sop; she hadn't gotten it out of him. “He saw through my disguise. He knew how old I was.”

Coulson didn't react at all. “Thank you for telling me,” he said. “Was there anything else?”

“No.” She fled.

She changed out of her cover story’s dress, and went to the gym, spending an hour beating the shit out of a punching bag, then out of a tall, burly agent who was stupid enough to spar with her. It wasn't just that she’d run into that, that _bastard_ of a colonel, but also that Coulson knew, and that she hadn't been able to keep herself together. She worked out her frustration and humiliation with her fists and feet. By the time she went back to her room for a shower, she felt better.

She was asleep, as oblivious to the outside world as she ever permitted herself to be, when there was a sharp knock on the door. She opened it and found a S.H.I.E.L.D. soldier in full gear on the other side. “Yes?”

“Agent Coulson wants to see you. I’m to escort you there personally.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s interrogating that colonel he brought in today, the Russian one.”

_Damn_. Coulson probably wanted her help intimidating that, that piece of excrement again. Well— she would deliver. If this was the worst working for S.H.I.E.L.D. had to offer, it was a damn sight better than the worst anywhere else had ever offered. The colonel had been far from her worst mission for the Red Room.

When they got there, two more soldiers were guarding the door. “Agent Coulson had to step out,” the one on the left told her gruffly. “He went to see why the camera is malfunctioning. He said he’d be back in twelve minutes.”

“Twelve minutes?”

“Precisely. And that was one minute and three seconds ago.”

She stared at him.

“He said you can wait inside, if you want.” The soldier gestured to the door.

“In _there_?”

“Don’t worry, the prisoner’s restrained. And gagged. But if he gets loose, just yell.”

Coulson had given her a very exact time to expect him back. And reason to believe that the camera was not recording. She stared at the door. “Okay.”

The guard opened the door. The colonel looked up, and his eyes widened. She stepped inside.

*

The next time she saw Coulson was four days later for a mission briefing. It was a routine extraction, with three agents and a squad of soldiers to back them up. Her job was infiltration.

She lingered in the conference room after the briefing. “How’s the colonel?” she asked. She didn’t bother trying to sound casual. Coulson would see right through the act, and take it as an indication of her emotional investment in the subject. She wasn’t much for small talk. There was no point in pretending otherwise.

He glanced up briefly. “Dead.”

She blinked. “Dead?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to him?” _She_ hadn't been that careless.

“Nothing. Or, rather, we let him go where we captured him, and publicly thanked him for his cooperation.” He gathered the last of his papers together. “I believe he was dead before nightfall.”

She leaned against the doorframe, crossed her arms over her chest, and studied Coulson without pretense. “Huh.” This ruthlessness was new. It made her reevaluate everything she knew about him. To be kind was one thing, but to be kind when you also had the capacity for cruelty-- she wasn’t sure what she thought of that. The trainers had had the capacity for something like kindness, occasionally, when it had suited their ends. They’d broken their subjects down with pain and then enslaved them with crumbs of feigned compassion. 

This felt completely different. But was everything Coulson did calculated to an end? How much of it came from his true nature? Could you be a spy and _not_ hide your true nature?

Suddenly she thought of of Clint Barton and his near total refusal to consider the consequences of any of the foolish things that he did. He just didn’t _care_. It was hard to believe that _he_ was manipulating her to some end. He was either very honest, or a very good spy.

“You had a question, Ms. Romanova?”

“Why’d you have him killed?” She would be blunt with Coulson. Maybe he would see it as a sign of trust, that she didn’t bother to wrap her point in layers of misdirection.

“We didn’t need him any more.”

“I didn’t think S.H.I.E.L.D. was that bloodthirsty.”

“Are you objecting?”

“I’m trying to determine if you think I should be in your debt for that.”

He looked at her with narrowed eyes, studying her as intently as she’d studied him. “No. I don’t.”

She watched him without speaking.

“Not everything is about you, Ms. Romanova.”

“Then what is it about?”

“The others.”

She felt like he’d punched her in the gut. Of course there would have been others, with a man like that. She concealed her reaction— she thought. It was hard to tell with Coulson, who had a bad habit of being more perceptive than she expected. 

Maybe she hadn’t been as successful as she thought. “There’s a certain glamour in solitary revenge.” Coulson's expression was half faint smile, half faint sneer. “The danger lies in getting wrapped up in that glamour and then forgetting the consequences.”

She eyed him. “Are we done here?”

“Did you have any further questions about the mission?”

“The wh— oh. No.”

“Then we’re done here.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: this chapter contains dream sequences of bodily mutilation. In context, it is not clear whether all of these sequences are fictional or memory.


	7. New York

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to the warnings at the beginning of the story, this chapter contains a brief episode of sexual assault (groping).

_Monday's child is fair of face,_

_Tuesday's child is full of grace,_

_Wednesday's child is full of woe,_

_Thursday's child has far to go,_

_Friday's child is loving and giving,_

_Saturday's child works hard for a living,_

_But the child that's born on the Sabbath day_

_Is bonny, blithe, good and gay._

*

Clint walked into the locker room and dropped his gear on the bench. He was filthy from the mats, soaked with sweat, and he was going to be one massive ache in the morning. It'd been a good sparring session. He wasn't gonna say that working with Romanova made him self-conscious about his hand-to-hand skills… but it never hurt to stay in practice.

“Hey, Barton,” someone called from the other end of the locker room.

He looked up. _Ugh_. “MacDonald.”

“I hear you and the Widow are on missions _together_ now.”

Clint pulled his T-shirt over his head and stepped out of his pants. “Congratulations, you’ve demonstrated you can read a mission roster.”

“ _You_ sure lucked out,” MacDonald said. “Or was this what you had in mind from the beginning, you sly bastard?”

Clint yanked his boxers down and kicked them off of his ankle. He rooted around in his locker for soap.

“C’mon, Barton, you gotta give us _something_. What’s she like?”

Clint’s hand closed around something. Faster than MacDonald could react, he turned, aimed, and knocked the stick of deodorant out of MacDonald’s hand with perfect accuracy. The balled-up, overripe sock from the bottom of his locker fell to the ground.

MacDonald sputtered. “ _What the hell was that?!_ ”

“Something,” Clint said. “’s what you wanted, right? But, sorry, gonna need it back.” He grabbed his towel and headed for the showers. As he passed MacDonald, who was still fuming, he reclaimed his sock. Yeah, he should probably wash that. It was great as a missile of biological warfare for shutting up idiots, but not so much as an article of clothing.

*

Three low-key missions later, Coulson still hadn't declared her ready for real field work again. She walked in on Coulson and Dr. Rosales arguing, ostensibly, about Natalia's readiness to return to normal work, but really about the fact that Dr. Rosales was up and assessing case files at all.

Why was Coulson so unusually agitated? Was it because Dr. Rosales wasn't in his chain of command, so he couldn’t order her to prolong her recovery? The doctor certainly didn’t look well— she’d lost a lot of weight, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

“Dr. Rosales, you are not the only one who can supervise these case files.” Coulson was leaning on the table, his hands on the edge.

“But I’m the best,” she said, not looking up, “and we both know it.”

“I can come back,” Natalia said.

Dr. Rosales did look up then. “Natalia. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

Both Coulson and the doctor raised one eyebrow, simultaneously, but opposite eyebrows. It was disconcerting.

“I’ve learned not to believe that word coming out of your mouth,” Coulson said.

These people, and their… _fussing_ over her. She couldn’t understand it. She didn’t even think it was only about her functioning as a tool of S.H.I.E.L.D. “I really do feel fine. As much as I have a basis for comparison.”

“Good,” Coulson said. “Dr. Rosales, I’m not above calling your immediate supervisor.”

“He’s on extended leave. Why do you think I waited until now to come in?”

Coulson’s mouth was set in a thin line.

“No, really, I can come back." Natalia felt like a zoologist: _And here we see the courting rituals of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in its natural habitat..._

“No, Dr. Rosales was just leaving. And going back to bed.”

Dr. Rosales looked mutinous.

“I reserved this conference room for a briefing. You’re not qualified for the details of the mission. Need to know.” Coulson crossed his arms over his chest.

“Fine,” Dr. Rosales said. “I have a meeting with another patient, anyway.”

Coulson's eyes narrowed. He looked unhappy.

“Natalia, can I have a word outside?” Dr. Rosales said.

“Okay…” Natalia held the door for the doctor as she rolled out. Coulson closed the door behind them.

“Do you feel up to this?”

“Yes.”

“If I gave you a week of leave, what would you do?”

Natalia stared at her blankly. “Leave?”

“Yes. You know, time away.”

“Away.”

Dr. Rosales threw up her hands in mock exasperation. “I’m putting a note in your file. You should learn how to relax. It would be helpful.”

“Of course,” Natalia agreed. “Right after I start an aerial porcine troupe.”

Dr. Rosales’ eyebrows went up. “That was a joke! I’m proud of you.”

Natalia watched her blankly.

“Okay. I won’t object to Agent Coulson's putting you back on active duty, as long as you promise me something.”

“I don’t make promises,” Natalia said automatically— then, what? Where had that come from? She made promises _all the time_ … but always as someone else, and rarely ones she intended to keep.

Well, then it was true.

“What is it,” she said cautiously.

“If you _stop_ being fine, you will _tell someone_. We’ve both fought too hard for you to lose this now because you’re being reticent.”

Natalia considered that. “I’ll… try.” She… she could… well, if she had to, Barton hadn’t ever taken advantage of her vulnerability. Or ridiculed her for it. Which made him pretty unique.

“Try very hard.”

Natalia folded her arms across herself. “What’s that saying? ‘Physician, heal thyself’?”

“Touché,” Dr. Rosales admitted. “All right. Good luck on this next mission… whatever it is.”

Natalia watched her roll down the corridor. Then she went back inside. Coulson had his usual bland expression back on his face, but she wasn’t fooled. She let the silence stretch out a bit before she said, “Well?”

Coulson looked up, the picture of innocence. “Well what?”

“You called me here. Was it because you and Dr. Rosales needed something to fight about? Or is there an actual mission?”

Coulson hesitated. There were several possible responses to that question, weren't there. But most of them would reveal more than he cared to share. “I wanted to assess your mission readiness.”

She leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. “So assess.”

He tilted his head and studied her. “Ms. Romanova, putting aside any concern about _your_ health or even your ability to function on S.H.I.E.L.D. business, if you work alongside other agents and you’re not as healthy as you say you are, you could seriously compromise them or get them killed.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“It’s actually true this time.” She let him consider where to take that: he couldn’t actually prove her wrong, or right, and it _wasn’t her problem_.

Finally Coulson hit a button on the table, and the door opened. “Your partner is going to have strict instructions to call in at the first sign of brain-melting,” he warned.

_Poor fool._ Who would they stick with the sorry task of trying to tell the difference between brain-melting dysfunction, and her normal, everyday dysfunction? She wasn't surprised when Barton entered. _Poor Barton_.

He gave her a quick onceover, which she knew was still very thorough if she noticed it at all. “You look better.”

Her lips twitched. “That’s not really a high bar. Considering.”

Coulson looked resigned. Barton looked amused. She shouldn’t pity him too much. He knew what he was getting into, better than anyone else S.H.I.E.L.D. could have assigned, and if he’d tried to run away screaming, she hadn’t heard about it.

“The two of you are going to Manhattan to go after this man, George Severn.” Coulson showed a picture of a man in his fifties. “He’s a very wealthy and successful American businessman; his company has holdings around the world and fingers in many pies. His company services many of the same groups as Stark Industries, but with food and medical supplies rather than weapons.”

Barton leaned back in his seat.

“You have a question, Barton?”

Barton ticked off points on his hands. “This guy’s important, he must be causing trouble if you’re sending us after him, he has friends in high places, and the military is dependent on his services. This should be good.”

“The diversity and distribution of the companies under his control gives him a very good excuse to move lots of money around the world,” Coulson continued. “We think he’s laundering money for H.Y.D.R.A..”

“H.Y.D.R.A.?” she asked.

“German terrorists, an offshoot of a research branch of the Nazis,” Barton said. “They’re fun.”

“You need a hobby,” Coulson told him. “So: you need to get in and get us enough intel that we can either shut him down, or use him as bait to catch the bigger fish.”

“How much intel is that?”

“Any communications with H.Y.D.R.A. that you can find. A second set of books, if he keeps one. He lives in Manhattan part of the year, near his corporate headquarters, but the information could be elsewhere. He also has a house in upstate New York, in the Hamptons, and in Florida.”

“Do you have an in for me?” she asked.

“A charity gala. It’s being held Thursday night. We’ve confirmed Severn will be in attendance there. We’ve gotten you a cover. Get his attention and go from there.”

She nodded.

“Barton, while Ms. Romanova is bright and distracting, you’ll hit him behind the scenes, provide cover, and generally be Ms. Romanova’s girl Friday.”

She ran that through her head again. “My girl what? When?”

“I always thought of myself as more of a Monday’s child, sir.”

“I’m sure you did,” Coulson said drily. “Ms. Romanova, that means that Barton’s not being assigned a specific task of his own on this mission, like raiding Turner’s base. He’ll be an extra set of legs and hands.”

_Extra set of hands and legs_? Barton mouthed, looking offended. Or maybe he was only pretending to be offended. Sometimes it was hard to tell-- he mouthed off to Coulson, seeming to have a quip for everything, but could become deadly serious in an instant. How could you kill people for a living and still be so lighthearted? She didn't know his history, but she could guess at the outline; how could you come through that and still crack so many jokes?

“Barton—“ Coulson began.

Something clicked in her head that had been bothering her since before Amsterdam. Coulson dropped Barton’s title a lot— he was ‘Barton’ just as often as he was ‘Agent Barton’— but he rarely called her anything but ‘Ms. Romanova.’ He was scrupulously polite about it. Why? Why bother? If it was part of some increasingly long game, what was the potential payout? She was _already_ doing good work for them; what more did they want?

She’d missed whatever Coulson was saying. She forced her attention back where it belonged. “— have any questions?” Coulson said.

She shook her head. Barton did the same. “Barton, you’re familiar with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s New York safe rooms. Take your pick of the unoccupied ones, or get a place somewhere else. It’s up to the two of you and your reading of the situation. You’ll be flying commercial, but don’t worry about the restrictions on your luggage.”

Barton’s eyes widened. “At _all_?”

“If you can provide justification for why you need a rocket launcher, I will personally stamp the through-tag on it.”

“… I’ll get back to you, sir.”

She tilted her head. “Why are you trying to keep the base in Manhattan a secret?”

“I beg your pardon?” Coulson asked politely.

“The other missions started with flying to an airstrip where S.H.I.E.L.D. has jurisdiction and picking up the cover there. I don’t believe that you don’t have access to _any_ airstrips in the New York area, so whatever airstrip that is, you don't want me knowing about it. I also know that Missouri isn’t S.H.I.E.L.D.’s main base. It’s in the middle of nowhere, it’s adjacent to someone else’s facility, and there are people I don’t see here for weeks at a time. So.” She folded her hands and put them on the table. “Manhattan.”

“If you’d prefer to avoid a commercial plane, we can drop you in New Jersey,” Coulson said. He wasn’t giving anything away. When she glanced at Barton, his face was blank, too. He'd switched from 'pain in the ass' to 'serious' while she wasn't looking.

That wasn’t the point, so she dropped it. “I need more weapons.”

“I’ll take you to the armory,” Coulson said. “If we’re done here?”

They were done. She walked beside Coulson down two long corridors, into the elevator, and down another hall, at the end of which—

A man grabbed her ass as he passed. As she spun to strike, she was startled, and then scolded herself for being startled. _Situational awareness: you shouldn't have been surprised he was so close._

Then confused— who was she playing this time, and how would they react? Was she playing a businesswoman who would be outraged, or a trophy girlfriend who--

She wasn’t playing anyone. Natalia Romanova had never had to, or gotten to, react to this situation before.

Only a second had passed. She grabbed the man’s collar, and shoved him up against the nearest wall before he had time to react. She put her hand around the base of his throat, pressing down on his blood vessels hard enough to make him notice, but not hard enough to make him pass out. She pinned his right wrist with her left elbow and put the edge of that hand low against his stomach, so it would _hurt_ if he struggled. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t break all twenty-seven bones in your hand right now,” she hissed.

He wriggled. She pressed both hands in harder, and he groaned, and stopped moving. “Please—“ he choked out, and his eyes darted past her. Right— Coulson was behind her— why hadn’t he stopped her yet, was this a test?

She _didn’t care_. _This is for you_ , she thought, hazily, illogically, and deeply satisfyingly, for all the women she’d ever been who hadn’t had the knowledge or the opportunity to strike back. She put her weight on her back foot so she could have more leverage. There were tears in his eyes now. “If you ever touch me again,” she said, “I will hurt you very severely and very slowly.”

He gurgled something.

“Don't think I couldn't. I’ve stolen the world’s best kept secrets. Finding _you_ would be child’s play.” She kept him there for another few seconds for good measure. Then she released him, and got out of the way as he fell to the ground. He fumbled his way up and fled without a backward glance.

She turned to Coulson. “Well?”

He raised his eyebrows. He looked like they’d been discussing the weather. “Well what?”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Why would I do anything to you?” He started walking again.

She followed his lead, still not sure what was going on. “I just attacked and temporarily incapacitated one of your people.”

“He attacked you first. If S.H.I.E.L.D. had trained him properly, you never would have had to deal with the situation. So I’d say we’re even.” He caught her eye. “We do have policies in place for these eventualities. He'll be reprimanded.”

_Like that would mean anything_. She walked in silence, eyes narrowed. Finally she said, “You know, this 'S.H.I.E.L.D. is a nurturing and politically correct workplace’ bullshit is kind of hard to swallow. I’ve snuck into a lot of militaries over the years, and they all had certain things in common.”

Coulson smiled, a predatory expression she'd never seen on his face before. “Some years ago, it came to Director Fury’s attention that S.H.I.E.L.D. was losing some of its best people because of the high attrition rate for female agents. He... wasn't happy. When some of those agents revealed that they had felt S.H.I.E.L.D. to be a hostile atmosphere, steps were taken to remedy the situation.” He tilted his head. “It’s not perfect. But I’m told it’s gotten better.”

That was… pragmatic. She could understand that.

“Agent Carter was new to S.H.I.E.L.D. around the same time,” he continued. “She was part of Director Fury’s initial focus group. She was very forceful.”

“I can picture that.”

They reached the armory. “I hear she threatened you?”

“She didn’t threaten me, she wished me dead.” She watched Coulson's reflection on a passing cart. There were only three people who could have told Coulson about that— Carter herself, which was unlikely; Hewitt; or Barton. It was probably Barton. How much else had he told Coulson?

The armory door slid open, distracting her completely. She’d gotten weapons here before but she’d never actually been inside the main room.

“Ranged weapons are in the right two-thirds, edged weapons are on the left, anything else is in the back,” Coulson said. “Did you have anything particular in mind?”

“… for starters, a shopping cart.” More firepower wasn’t necessarily better, she was very used to making do with only a little, but _damn_ , this was a nice room.

“We try to discourage agents from taking more than they can easily carry.” He sounded amused. “I’ll send the supervisor your way. She’ll help you fill out the paperwork.”

Then he left her alone in a giant room full of weapons. S.H.I.E.L.D. trusted her now, apparently. Or maybe they just didn’t think giving her access to… was that a _flamethrower_?… would make her any more dangerous than she already was.

_Restraint, Romanova_. A good pistol or two, and some knives, were all she really _needed_. She could come back later, especially since she’d memorized Coulson’s entry code. Though smuggling one or two things out now would be good, too. It was always good to be more prepared than people expected you to be.

*

They flew separate commercial flights into JFK. He didn’t wait around for Romanova; they shouldn't be seen together. He was pretty sure that at this point, she wasn’t going to take off running. Though if she were, Manhattan would be a damn good place to do it.

Their safe house was in the heart of the borough. He’d pulled up a list of possible places to crash in Manhattan; Romanova had picked the neighborhood. “Two beds,” had been her only other stipulation. He’d narrowed the list further by sight lines, and ease of access to other buildings. What they'd ended up with was tiny, but that made it easier to sweep for threats, and for familiarity.

Once he was sure the apartment was clean, he went out for food. A lot of agents lived on coffee for short missions and takeout and Powerbars for longer ones, but Clint was fond of regular meals whenever he could get them, _very_ fond of them. Even if those regular meals were frozen pizza and boxed macaroni and cheese, because he couldn’t really cook. He had no idea if Romanova could but he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask her to cook for _him_. He liked his body parts attached and in their proper positions, thank you very much.

He got back with a couple of bags and struggled with the lock-- he needed to get the WD-40 from his kit. In the kitchen, the long-necked faucet was turned a few inches from where he’d left it. He tensed, going for his gun, and then caught Romanova’s reflection in the oven door. He relaxed and stepped inside as she put her own gun away. “Uneventful flight?” he asked, dumping the bags on the counter.

“It was fine.” She came over and peered into the bags. “You’ve been busily domestic.”

“Yeah, next I’ll be knitting tea cozies in my spare time,” he grunted, pulling open a stubborn cupboard.

She grabbed the last bag and slid past him to put the contents in the refrigerator. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Scoping out the gala location and each of Severn’s offices. You?”

“The same. But from ground level. I might do some shopping.” She closed the refrigerator door. “In a city this size, it’s hard to be really _seen_ without crossing the line into conspicuous.”

He'd never had to worry about that. He was usually the one doing the seeing. “I’ll try to find him to follow him for a while. Might be illuminating.”

Romanova kept out one frozen pizza and turned the oven on. “Is one enough?”

“Yes.”

While the pizza cooked, she studied the website of the charity the gala was benefiting; he unpacked his bow and quiver, and inspected them thoroughly. There was no reason to expect that they’d gotten damaged on the plane, as well as he'd packed them. There was also no reason to be careless.

They ate in silence. Romanova disappeared into one of the bedrooms and shut the door, he assumed to sleep, but a few minutes later he heard a loud _thump_.

“Are you okay?” he called through the door.

“I’m fine.” She sounded cranky.

He tried, and failed, to explain the noise. It had been pretty loud, so nothing dropping out of her handbag. She didn’t sound alarmed, so it wasn’t an attack. “… did you fall over?”

“ _Yes_ , actually, I did.”

Oh. Well, that explained the crankiness. He stifled a smile. “What were you trying to do?”

“Stretch!”

“There’s more room in the living room.”

“Yes, thank you, I was aware.”

Why wouldn’t she want to… ah. Hmm. “I’m turning in!” he called, then retreated to the other bedroom without waiting for an answer. He undressed in the dark and crawled under the covers. The other door opened; Romanova didn't make any noise in the living room.

He was the senior agent-- technically, the only agent-- and he was responsible for her on a mission. A good leader always looked out for his or her people, anyway. But this wasn't just making sure she had what she needed to do her job.

It was just... well, he kept thinking of Coulson. He was probably the most fundamentally decent human being Clint had ever met, not that there was much competition for that title. When Clint had first joined S.H.I.E.L.D., he sure as hell hadn't been a pleasant person-- he'd spit in Coulson's face the first time they'd met, which pretty much summed up his personality at twenty-one. Coulson, who'd been put in charge of him, could have turned the whole thing into a war to break down Clint’s resistance, but he’d been unrelenting pleasant and… _kind_. He’d been pretty damn helpful, as Clint had adjusted to living with civilized, with _normal_ people, and with working as a team. Those first missions hadn’t been assassinations— those’d come later, and Clint had been expecting them-- but at first, he'd been sent out on things that mattered in a different way. Rescue missions. Saving villages from powerful warlords testing new weapons. That sort of thing. After about the fourth or fifth one of those, Clint had sort of started to believe that he wasn’t Satan, after all.

The first time Clint had mouthed off to Coulson, out loud, it’d been an accident. He was a sarcastic ass in his head all the time, but that one had just slipped out of his mouth. Coulson had been startled. So had Clint. For a minute, he’d been sure Coulson was going to hit him, even though that made no sense, he wasn’t five or nine or even seventeen any more, and he could take down anyone who went for him. Coulson'd seen all that, somehow, damn him— Clint hadn’t wanted anyone’s pity, hadn’t wanted anyone to know-- and paused, for a second. Clint had watched him think a lot of things, but hadn’t known what any of them were. Then Coulson had been sarcastic right back. It was the start of what became their standard form of communication.

So Coulson had taught Clint how to be kind, at a time when Clint had thought that had been beaten out of him forever, and he’d done it by being kind _to Clint_ , who’d thought he was past deserving it. In the process, he’d probably saved Clint’s… well, saved his soul. Not in the big tent, traveling revival preacher sense, like how Clint’s dad had gotten Saved, and gone a whole month without hitting the bottle or his family. But in the way that meant Clint had been able to look at himself in the mirror again, and that he’d stopped having fantasies of fatal accidents. And in a way that, months or years later, had allowed Clint to acknowledge that what-- who-- Coulson had saved was actually worth something.

So he got out of Romanova’s way and gave her the living room. And when the distinctive sounds of a nightmare woke him a couple of hours later, he listened to her for a minute, then stood up and reached for the door. _No, wait, abort--_ He grabbed his pants, struggled into them, and _then_ opened the door. He knocked hard on her door. “Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

A sudden and very long silence from inside the room stretched on long enough to be alarming. “Uhhh… are you decent?”

“Yeah,” Romanova said faintly.

He opened the door. She was sitting up in bed, hair disheveled, eyes wide. He didn’t know what to say.

“Sorry I woke you.”

He shrugged it off. “Was this, uh, one of the brain-melting variety?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. Just garden-variety.”

She looked embarrassed, and miserable. He felt a sudden rush of something soft, that he wasn't going to vocalize, because he valued his continued well-being, and he didn't think she'd care that it was empathy, not pity. She was still breathing fast, and didn't look like she'd be sleeping again soon. “You wanna, I don’t know… play cards or something?”

She looked up, and her eyes narrowed. “Is this a lead-in to a joke about strip poker?”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “Just a lead-in to my kicking your ass at it.”

Her eyes narrowed further.

He gave her a friendly smile.

“There’s no way.” She swung her legs to the floor.

They sat at the dining room table, with an old deck from a drawer. He shuffled, and prepared to deal. Romanova raised an eyebrow and held out her hand. He handed the deck over.

“Stakes?” he asked as she shuffled, too.

“I think I saw a bag of peppermints in the cupboard.” She held the cards firmly, clearly not willing turn her back on them to go to the cupboard.

He smirked, and obligingly got the bag from the kitchen. They traded; he shuffled again and started to deal as she split the candy into two groups. “You do know how to play, right?”

She looked at him like he was hopeless.

“Just checking. Best out of five?”

“Sure.”

They anted up. Romanova’s face was blank— of course she had a great poker face. But then, so did he. “So,” he said. “How’s the whole not being crazy thing going?”

“Fine.” Her voice was flat.

“You scared the shit out of me in Amsterdam.”

She seemed to consider several possible responses. “You weren’t in as much danger as you thought you were.”

“Not what I was concerned about,” he said. She was hard to read, even for him, even when she wasn’t actively playing a part, but he’d had years of practice with Coulson. She looked… surprised. Gratified. Confused.

She shrugged. “Well, sorry.”

“How are you? Really?” he asked, watching her intently.

She hesitated. She was deciding _something_ , though whether it was what to say, or whether or not to tell the truth, or how best to lie to get him to shut up, he didn’t know. “Better,” she said finally. “The nightmares have, uh… gotten less horrific.”

He nodded. “Good.”

They played a hand. She won. She dealt that time. “I don’t understand you,” she blurted, as they looked at their cards.

This was... new. “Oh?”

“I don’t understand what you want from me.”

He shrugged. He was too tired to have this argument again. “Yeah. I know.” They played some more. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t understand me, either.”

He won that hand. “We’re not fucking,” she said.

_What— What?_ Had that been behind every question about his motives? Her assumption that he would expect that, that he would even want that, irritated him, and then he remembered Macdonald. She'd probably seen that assumption justified frequently. His irritation faded. “Glad we agree on _something_ ,” he said lightly. He dealt. “I don’t want to fuck you, Romanova.”

She picked up her cards. “Some guys say that just to get into my pants.”

He set up his hand. “Yeah? Are they as sexy as they are good at causal logic?”

She tried, but couldn’t quite choke off her smirk.

_I don’t want that from you, and if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t expect it_ , he wanted to say, but she had no reason to believe his words any more than she’d believed any of the others. She knew and had known from way too young how deceptive words were, and he knew the same thing. What counted was not _acting_ like he expected that from her. Luckily, that wasn't hard.

… see, Coulson blamed him for all those terrible puns, but they just kind of came up— _uh, no, bad word choice there, Barton_. They just kind of _happened_.

He kept his face poker-blank, because if Romanova asked him what was so funny there was _no way in hell_ he was explaining.

He won that hand, too. She dealt. “You know if they, if they... uh, S.H.I.E.L.D. has policies and stuff. If they bother you. Those guys.” There were some agents who thought he slept through their policy briefings, but he paid attention to the things he needed to know to look after his people. He preferred solo missions, not running a field team, but if they were placed under his command, then they were his responsibility. “You could talk to--”

“Policies?” Romanova arranged her cards. “Do they have a policy that anyone who talks to me has to look at my face?”

“Not... specifically, no.”

“Or that I can beat the shit out of anyone who looks at my breasts and thinks I'm stupid?”

“Uh, no.”

“Then they don't sound like much good.” She laid down her hand. He laid down his, which, incidentally, won.

Romanova blinked.

He smiled pleasantly.

“You won,” she admitted after a moment.

“Hey, look at that, I did.”

“Good… game.”

“Yes, it was.”

She covered a yawn. “I, uh. I think I’m going to sleep.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Doesn't really count as quitting while you're ahead, but don’t worry, I won’t think you’re chicken.”

She did a double take, then stared, startled.

He smiled pleasantly again.

Her eyes narrowed. “How very kind of you, Agent Barton,” she said drily. She stretched elegantly and put the peppermints in the bag. Then she headed back to the bedroom. At the doorway, she stopped and turned. “Uh… thanks.”

“Welcome,” he said, and he wasn’t teasing her this time.

*

The rest of the night was quiet. If Romanova had more nightmares, she kept them to herself. He woke as the sky was greying outside the window, and listened to the sounds of the city for a few minutes. Manhattan was a fascinating and compelling place. In the city that never slept, there was _always_ something to watch.

It wasn’t coincidence that they were on the highest floor of the building. He made a pot of coffee, carried it to the window, and watched the sun rise, wholly absorbed in the traffic patterns, the cars, the ebb and flow of people.

“I smell coffee. Where is it?” Romanova demanded behind him.

He jumped, splashing hot coffee on his hand. “Ow.” He hadn’t even heard her come out of the room. Sure, he’d been spacing out, but she was _good_. He couldn’t tell whether or not she was smirking. “It’s, uh, here.”

Her eyes narrowed further. “Were you drinking out of the _pot_?”

_Come not between the Natalia and her coffee, or she will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation_. Oh, God, he’d been spending _way_ too much time around Coulson. If anyone asked, he would never, ever admit to knowing the context for that quote. It hadn't been his idea to watch it, but after twenty-four hours holed up on the top floor of a hot, stifling Sarajevo safe house, Coulson had actually _put down his paperwork_ and turned on a movie. “Nope.” He lifted the mug. “Just being optimistic.” If he intended to finish the whole pot, there was no point in putting it back, right?

“Overprotective,” she pointed out.

“Hey, I didn’t even hear you come out of your room. I could have turned around and the entire pot would have been gone.”

“Yes, that’s the idea.” She held out an imperious hand. Reluctantly, he handed over the coffee pot.

She poured for herself, then gave the pot back instead of returning to the coffee maker. She stood directly behind him, not close enough to be intrusive, but close enough to make him aware that the world’s deadliest assassin was in his blind spot. “You like high places.”

A sarcastic comment about her great powers of observation rose to his lips, but he’d noticed that her statements were often thinly veiled questions: _I want to talk about this, but I won’t admit to being curious_. He struck a happy medium between being sarcastic, and being an open book: “Yeah.”

“Why?” She sounded thoughtful, curious.

“They’re safe. You can see a long way. See anyone coming. There’s a lotta information, up high.”

“Even your bed’s up high.”

Okay, this was getting a little more probing. Was she asking these things because she thought Amsterdam had put them on closer terms with each other? Or because she’d thought she’d given a lot away, and wanted something from him in return? “Old habits.” He let himself sound curt. Up high was just _safer_. That was all there was to it. The reasons he felt safe up high were absolutely none of her business.

She let the conversation drop. He headed out for a day of surveillance, and remembered why he didn’t come to New York more often: the views from up high were unparalleled, but trying to follow someone on the ground was aggravating as hell. There were crowds, and someone like him had to watch where he was going at all times, watch everyone around him, make sure no one was trying to pick his pocket or stab him. Even if he’d been Chief Raiser of Bunnies at the Central Park Zoo, not an assassin, he still would have felt compelled to watch it all. From ten stories up, it was soothing and entrancing; at ground level, with a thousand distracting details in his face, it was hard to take.

He was a big boy; he managed. He stopped by the Manhattan office, then found Severn’s ritzy house while it was still early. He found a good place to wait— no one ever looked up— and settled in. An hour later, the man bustled out with an entourage, and got into a waiting car. Clint didn’t bother with a taxi. He took a baseball cap out of the messenger bag that held his quiver, pulled it over his forehead, grabbed the bike he’d stashed nearby, and took off for an exciting morning of fighting angry New York drivers. Manhattan traffic was slow. It wasn’t hard to keep up.

But Severn didn’t go anywhere exciting, just in a straight line from his house to his office. Clint hung around there for a while, scouting, then went back to the house, assuming it would be a bit less busy with Severn gone. He got a feel for the place, watching the entrances and exits, then headed back to the office. He stopped on the way to buy a cardboard box and some tape, and noted one of the names on the door below Severn’s office. He scrawled a slight variant of that name, and Severn’s address, on the box. Then he let himself into the lobby and stopped in front of the most harried receptionist. “Got a delivery for Ms. Thompson, third floor? She’s gotta sign for it, in person.”

She wasn’t too harried not to notice him. “You’re a delivery man?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She eyed his lack of uniform suspiciously. “Let me see your ID.”

Obediently, he produced it. It was fake, of course, but it would stand up to scrutiny. It matched the logo on his hat, and if someone called the number on the back, they’d be connected to a “real” delivery service. S.H.I.E.L.D. found the setup extremely useful for its New York agents.

“Elevator’s in the back, second floor, turn left, third door on the right,” she said.

He pressed the button for the third floor. He got off, turned left, and looked for the third door on the right. Shockingly, that office didn’t belong to Ms. Thompson, so he turned back around, frowned, and checked the third door on the other side of the elevator. In the process, he got a good look at the entire hallway, including the swanky, glass-enclosed one at the end, with its own reception area, that had to be for Severn himself. He also noted that there were no visible cameras in the corridor, though there had been in the lobby.

He took the elevator down to the second floor and repeated the performance. This time, he turned right first, to maximize the amount of snooping he could do before finding the correct office. The windows opening onto the fire escape were alarmed, but the ones in the offices themselves weren’t. Weird, how nobody ever expected a thief to climb straight up the side of a building.

When he’d looked his fill, he turned around and “finally” found Ms. Thompson. He knocked on the open door. “Ms. Thompson? Delivery for you.”

“Oh? I wasn’t expecting anything.”

He held out the package. She gave it a cursory look, frowned, and looked again. “This isn’t me.” She handed it back.

He stared. “What?”

“This is for Janet E. Thompson. I’m Jane Thompson, and my middle initial’s M.” She looked sympathetic, but clearly wanted to get back to work.

“Aw, shit— sorry, ma’am.” He backed out, and took the elevator down to the ground floor.

The receptionist didn’t notice that he still had the package in his hand when he walked past, and he made it outside without any trouble. He tucked the package into his jacket; he’d discard it later, where no one could possibly see him or find it in a trash can. Not his best surveilling ever, but not bad.

Romanova probably would have been able to talk her way in, steal the documents from under Severn’s nose, and waltz out again using a, a model airplane and some bailing wire, or something; but then, Romanova had to wear high heels and flirt with sleazeballs. His lot really wasn't that bad.

He headed downtown and scoped out the location of the gala, finding the best places to watch the ballroom. Then he spent some time finding inconspicuous routes to get to those places. Romanova had beaten him back to the apartment, and was doing a series of stretches and resistance exercises. “I’ll be on the top of the building directly to the west. I’ll have the best view of the middle windows.”

She got gracefully to her feet. “Fine.”

He got some food from the refrigerator, aware that Romanova was watching him. He let the silence stretch out. If she wanted to talk, she’d talk.

“Thanks,” she said finally.

“What for?”

“… Amsterdam.”

“That wasn’t—“ he began. “That’s not—“ _No decent person would have walked away_ , except he’d learned a long time ago not to overestimate humanity like that, and anyway, he wasn’t fixated on calling himself a decent person. “That’s not something you need to thank me for.”

She continued to watch him. “I don’t have a great handle on what normal is, but I don’t think you’re it.”

“I’d hate to be boring.”

She nodded. “Of course. Your primary concern is your entertainment value.”

He didn’t bother trying not to smirk. He liked her straight-faced sarcasm. Then he tried to figure out what else to say about Amsterdam. He'd felt so helpless, watching her fight a losing battle against the monsters in her head, in her childhood, that were taking shape in front of her eyes. He'd hoped, almost prayed for her to just hang on, for S.H.I.E.L.D. to get there faster. When she’d died on the helicopter—

He hadn’t been prepared for how disappointed, sad, _angry_ he’d felt. _Damn it_ , he’d thought, _she’s come too far, she’s fought too hard, it’s not fair_. Apparently she’d agreed, because she’d come back to life and then done it twice more. Now that it was over, he was still left with the memory of the intensity of that feeling. And he couldn’t look at her quite the same way now. It was— empathy, respect, hell if he knew. He wanted her to make it. She deserved to make it. “I couldn’t have walked away,” he said finally.

“That’s foolish.”

He shrugged. “Better foolish than heartless.” Better, always. He’d lived through the consequences of his actions, of his bad decisions, and would do so again. But living with no soul had nearly killed him.

She didn't press the point; he was glad. He double-checked his gear and put on his dark sneaking clothes, then left to take a circuitous route up to the roof. No one saw him climb up; he flattened himself on the roof, bow in front of him, and watched workers setting up the ballroom. Guests started to trickle in after a while, but it seemed like most of them wanted to be fashionably late. Romanova showed up about twenty minutes after that, and said the same thing: “There’s barely anyone here.” She sounded miffed. “Have you seen Severn?”

“Nope.”

“I’m going to get lost on my way to the ladies room and check the place out.” She disappeared from his binoculars.

He watched more people arrive, slowly reaching a respectable mass. “Where are you? You’re gonna miss the fun.”

“Checking the basement. There's something strange--”

Through the earpiece, he heard a loud _bang_ , and then the sound of flesh hitting flesh. “Romanova!”

No response. He took off across the roof, dropping two stories to the next level and rolling to absorb momentum. His hip ached where he’d slammed into the ground. The comm was still silent. He reached the roof of the museum, yanked open the door, and took the stairs three at a time to the basement. A cry of pain told him which direction to go, and he skidded around the corner, arrow nocked--

Romanova gave him a cool look from the center of the room, as if to say, _what took you so long?_ There were four bodies on the floor, and she was drenched in blood. Someone must have lost a major blood vessel.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No.” She grabbed the nearest body under the armpits and started hauling it across the room.

Okay, damage control— how to dispose of four bodies, clean down the room, and let Romanova get to the gala before anyone noticed she was absent? “You can’t wear that.” Her dress was soaked with blood.

She gave him a flat look. “Thanks for that keen observation, Hawkeye.”

She couldn't go out like that, either; washing the whole thing in a bathroom sink probably wouldn't make it presentable. “I passed a janitor’s closet a few hallways back. There’s gotta be towels and bags and bleach there. You clean up, I’ll go grab you something else to wear, and then we’ll stash the bodies somewhere.”

Another flat look. “How the hell are you going to find me something to _wear_?”

“Do you have any better ideas?” he demanded. He drew the line at letting her borrow _his_ clothes to go out in. He didn’t draw many lines, but wearing clothes during missions was one of them.

“No,” she admitted grudgingly. “Just get— whatever, I’ll be done when you’re back and then I’ll go find something for the gala.”

He thought her timetable was optimistic. He left her picking the lock of the janitor's closet, collapsed his bow, bundled his quiver under his jacket, and snuck up to the public levels of the building. He caught a cab to one of the shopping districts, then watched people going in and out of the stores. In New York, you could find anything open at the right hour if you looked hard enough, including fancy dress shops-- and that one, there, didn't have any customers at the moment.

The woman working looked up when he came in. He moved slowly, trying to give off the impression of not-a-robber. “Uh, hi.” He made a show of looking around uneasily. “I, uh, I kinda need to get a dress now.”

“For you?” she said carefully.

“Oh— oh, no.” He sounded out of place for New York, and made an effort to talk less like an undereducated Midwesterner. “My sister was on her way to a party before some big formal dance thing—“

“Homecoming?” the clerk suggested.

“Yeah! Yeah, that. She was with her girlfriend, and some kids attacked them and dumped paint on them.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“So… she’s down at the station with our parents, making a report, but she was, you know, crying over the whole thing, and crying over her dress, and I thought, I just got a bonus, so I’d see if I could get her a new one. So she could still go.” He shrugged. “I found this place on Google.”

“You’re a good brother.”

He shrugged again. “She’s my kid sister, you know? I kinda hate bullies. I’d beat the jackasses up for her if I could find them, but I think this would make her feel better.”

“Do you know what size she wears?”

“Uh…” Clint knew exactly what size Romanova was, but there was no convincing reason his cover story would know. “Lemme text my mom, she’ll know.” He pulled out his phone. “She’s about five three, the first dress was blue, do you have anything…?” He looked around, pretending to be bewildered by the sea of feminine clothing. It wasn't hard.

“Sure, start with these racks over there.” The clerk led him to an island of blue. “Was it a short dress, or a long one?”

“Um… in between?” He flipped quickly through the nearest rack until he found what was closest to Romanova's size. “Something like this, maybe?” He looked it up and down. “Actually, I guess this would work.”

“Do you want to send her a picture and see if she likes it?” The clerk seemed to be getting into his fake story.

_No, I want to get out of here and go_. “If she’s at the station, she’s probably pretty busy,” he said. “But, oh, I think she sent me a picture last month…” He pretended to search through his phone. “Yeah, I think this’ll work.” He started for the register, hoping the clerk would take the hint and not ask to see the picture to give a second opinion.

“What about her foundation garments? Will this work with what she was wearing before?” The clerk gestured over her shoulder, to the back of the store.

_Foundation garments?_

“Her bra,” the clerk explained. “With the shape of the straps?”

Clint stared blankly at the dress in his hand.

The clerk laughed. “Yeah, most men don't know about that.”

He could maybe find the closest match in the store by comparing them all to each other, but there was no way in hell he could explain that in his ‘brother’ persona without looking creepy as fuck. And he needed to get back. Romanova could get around the minor inconvenience of having the wrong bra straps. “Yeah, I think it’ll be fine, I think she wore something like this to our cousin’s wedding. With the.” He waved his finger in the air, vaguely describing the top of the dress.

The clerk didn’t detain him any longer. He hesitated over his unmarked S.H.I.E.L.D. card-- best not to leave any trail, if he was pretending to be someone else. Instead he counted out a wad of cash as the clerk rang up the dress.

She eyed the cash curiously. “What do you do?”

“I supervise construction sites.” Clint seized on an explanation that explain his general stature, and why he had so much cash. “We mostly do real specialized, delicate projects. I just finished up a cute little house upstate, all ‘green’ and stuff, with the insulation and all. Got a nice bonus for that.”

“Oh.” The clerk put the dress in a bag. “Well, I wish I’d had a nice brother like you.”

_Yeah, me too_.

“All mine ever gave me was rug burns and decapitated Barbie dolls.” She carefully counted out his change and tucked the receipt in the bag. “I hope your sister enjoys her dance.”

“Thanks!”

He took a cab back to the museum's neighborhood, and snuck around to the service entrance. Someone was there; he had to find a section of the wall hidden from both cameras and caterers, and scale it to the second-floor balcony, without dropping the dress _or_ letting the bag crinkle. He grabbed the first empty box he saw and stuffed the dress inside. With his head down and his hat on, carrying a large box, he could pass as one of the grunts working the gala.

In the basement, he tapped his earpiece three times to let Romanova know it was him, and pushed the door open. She’d been just as busy as he had— the bodies were wrapped in plastic and piled against the wall, and all the blood was gone from the walls and floor. The blood was drying on her dress, but she’d gotten it off of her skin. “About time,” she said. He held out the bag. She frowned. “Is this a fancy dress?”

“Um, yes.”

“Why?”

He quirked his eyebrows. “Uh, because you’re going to a fancy party.”

“There’s no way it’s going to fit, and I’m going to be conspicuous leaving—“

“Look, just try the damn thing on.” He frowned. How was he going to get four bodies out through the halls without being noticed?

Romanova gave him a suspicious look. He turned around and studied the fire plan map on the wall, trying to figure out the best route. Maybe leave the bodies hidden somewhere in the building and put in an anonymous call to the police, later?

“This fits,” Romanova said from behind him.

“Uh, yeah, that was the point.”

“This fits _very well_.”

He turned around. She’d had to take one of her sheaths off to get into the dress, apparently, or maybe she was just holding the knife for the hell of it. “Did you call S.H.I.E.L.D. for my measurements?”

“… no?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then how did you know what size to buy?”

“What do you mean, how did I know what size to buy? I got the one that was the size of you.”

“You know _exactly_ what size I am?”

What? Okay, stop, rewind, reassess. Romanova was pissed. Why? He knew what size she was, because he’d looked at her, and—

Right. Normal people couldn’t do that. “Romanova, I’m a sniper,” he said. “I have good eyes. Details are my life’s blood. I can make shots with my eyes closed. This is child’s play in comparison.” He paused. She still looked wary, but she was listening. “And yeah, okay, I know exactly how much space you take up, so I don’t accidentally _shoot you_ if I’m covering you and you move fast. That would be embarrassing.”

She stared at him for another few seconds, eyes still narrowed, completely still. Then she swiftly sheathed the knife. “I searched the bodies. I didn’t find anything useful.” She pointed to a pile of cell phones on the floor.

“Any idea why they were after you?”

She shook her head. “They have no reason to be after me. I haven’t done anything yet. My cover story barely even exists yet.” She looked frustrated. “I’m not used to people trying to kill me before I’ve actually given them a reason.”

“It happens.” He kneeled to check the bodies, and see if he could pick up anything. “I always figure it’s the force of my charm and personality.”

“I think you need a remedial course in interpersonal relations, Barton,” Romanova said drily.

He shrugged. “I suppose you’re the authority on that.”

“… Touché.”

He came up blank, too. There were a couple of identifying marks that might help S.H.I.E.L.D. ID these guys, but for now, they had nothing. “If I can find a big enough janitor’s cart, I can take them to the dumpster. I could just stick ‘em in the closet—“

A light footstep outside the door was the only warning they had before the door fell in. He whirled, shaking out his bow and grabbing an arrow, as Romanova dove to the floor and came up with a gun in each hand. Something small and round landed on the floor—

He fell back, landing behind the bodies, and waited for the explosion—

He heard the hissing too late. He fumbled towards the gas bomb, breathing through his shirt, but his vision blurred and he fell. He’d already had too much of the…

*

He woke up tied to a chair.

_Well, this is fun_.

He tried to figure out the situation. There were people moving around, and judging by the acoustics, it was a small room. “Are they coming around yet?” a man asked.

“The woman might be.”

S _hit_. He hadn't had great hopes that Romanova had gotten away, but she’d done more improbable things before.

“Bring ‘em around. We’re short on time.”

He didn’t brace himself for a blow. He didn’t want to give away that he was awake, and put their captors on the look out for more deception from him. Someone came close—

Something _burned_ under his nose. He jerked back reflexively, gasping for fresh air, and opened his watering eyes. The guy standing over him grinned, and waved the smelling salts under his nose again. “Like that?”

Clint held his breath. The guy looked disappointed, and moved on to Romanova. She jerked awake too. Had she really been unconscious, or just faking it?

There was a bad taste in his mouth, but not the usual one from sleeping, so it was probably from the gas. His stomach felt sour, and the inside of his nose burned. Other than that, he felt okay. So their captors hadn’t beaten them up while they were unconscious.

They _had_ searched them thoroughly. Clint’s bow and quiver were gone— of course— plus his gun, his backup gun, his knife, and even the knife from his shoe. And— _shit_. His wallet. Okay, damage control. It had his ID, and his S.H.I.E.L.D. credit card, but thanks to S.H.I.E.L.D., his recent history was buried pretty well. Anyone searching might find that old arrest warrant, and _maybe_ something from his time as a merc, but nothing that was incriminating on its own. The credit card was hard to trace— the spooks back in Ontario had managed to link up his purchases, but they hadn’t actually managed to get his identity. And Romanova’s ID should be consistent with her cover story.

He checked out the room. There were three guys and a woman. The woman was hanging back against the wall, arms folded, not talking. She was petite, a little taller than Romanova, with short dark hair and olive skin. One guy was tall, skinny, and bald, with a head like a cue ball. One was short and wide, muscular, with blonde hair, and the third was pretty nondescript.

“Who sent you?” Cue Ball demanded. It wasn’t addressed specifically to either of them. This first part would be as much about figuring out their dynamics, who was in charge and who was vulnerable, as about getting information. Clint didn’t respond. Romanova didn’t, either. He didn't do anything as obvious as look at her, but he wished he had a better idea of her status than one brief glance had given him.

Sometimes wishes came true. Cue Ball belted him in the face. Clint’s head snapped back; he breathed evenly through the pain. He rolled his head back around to the front, glancing at Romanova as he did so. Her face was impassive, but she looked uninjured.

“Who _sent_ you?” Cue Ball demanded again. When he didn’t get an answer, he hit Clint again, this time in the ribs. The chair rocked with the force of the blow. It was good that he was focusing on Clint, but if he wasn’t dividing up the hits indiscriminately, he was probably saving up to hit Romanova to get Clint to talk.

He worked his way down Clint’s body, methodically pounding each section in turn. It felt fucking terrible. _I can do this all night, bastard_ , Clint thought, a little unevenly. He wiped his bloody face on his shirt and gave their captor a crazed, crooked grin.

Cue Ball narrowed his eyes, and turned to Romanova. He stomped on her foot. She tilted her head and looked up at him. He punched her low in the stomach. She exhaled sharply, but didn’t react. _That works better on a guy, moron_.

Cue Ball whirled and did the same to Clint. It was a hard struggle to breathe evenly, not groan, not gag. _Always nice to be pleasantly surprised by someone’s intelligence_ , he thought hazily.

“Why are you here?” Cue Ball demanded.

Silence.

“Which company sent you? Was it Transverse?”

He grabbed the middle finger of Clint’s right hand. “You’re some sort of archer, or something, aren’t you? We found your bow.”

Clint was silent.

“You need this finger, don’t you,” Cue Ball continued. He started to put pressure on it. “You know what they used to do to archers in the Middle Ages? Cut off their middle fingers so they couldn’t draw a bow string.”

Clint fought down his panic. He clung to one thought: _Wrong hand_.

Romanova muttered something in Russian.

The pressure let up. “What?”

Silence.

“What’d she say?” Cue Ball demanded.

“How the hell should I know, I barely know her, how should I know how to translate for her? I don’t speak, what, fucking Polish.”

“You barely know her? Why is she with you?”

Clint didn’t answer.

“ _Answer me_ ,” he said, grabbing Clint’s hand again.

Silence.

“Is she, what? She’s the brains of the operation?”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “I’m just the big dumb bodyguard.”

The man backhanded him. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Short Man muttered something to Bland Man. Bland Man said, “I’m going to go check the hallways, make sure no one’s wandering down this way.”

Cue Ball acknowledged him with a wave. Short Woman watched him go. Cue Ball aimed a pistol between Romanova’s eyes. “Start talking, big dumb bodyguard,” he said, “or your window dressing gets her brains painted on the wall.”

Clint gave him an unimpressed look. “Yeah? Your associate just went to see if anyone was nearby, and you’re gonna fire an unsilenced gun? Kitchen’s right above us.”

Cue Ball lowered the gun.

“You sure _you’re_ not just the big dumb bodyguard?” Clint added.

Cue Ball whirled and hit him across the face with the gun. Stars exploded across his vision, and his blood roared in his ears. He hung slack against his bonds for a minute, panting. When his vision cleared again, Cue Ball looked satisfied.

“So,” Clint said. “Interesting philosophy you got there.” With his head, he tilted towards the back corner of the room, not sure if that was actually the right direction, but whatever. “Send assassins first, ask questions later? Why’d your boss even bother with you if he wanted us dead?”

“I’m asking the questions, you moron,” Cue Ball snapped.

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

This time Cue Ball kicked him in the ribs. Clint couldn’t help groaning. _Impressive flexibility you got there, man._

“All this fuss over a stupid merger?” Romanova asked. “Your boss is even more witless than I thought.”

Cue Ball turned away from watching Clint with obvious pleasure, and stalked back over to Romanova. “What merger?” he demanded.

She didn’t answer.

He punched her—

– she blocked the blow, the ropes falling from her wrists to the ground. She grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm at an unnatural angle, and yanked the gun from his other hand. She smacked him in the side of the temple with it. He crumpled to the ground. Short Man grabbed his own gun; Romanova aimed for his hand, and winged him. Short Man and Short Woman fled. Romanova fired one shot after them— and then the gun clicked. “Damn it.” She hauled Cue Ball up, patted him down until she found a pocketknife, and sliced her ankles free. Then she freed Clint's wrists and handed him the knife. He wiggled his fingers, trying to restore full circulation. Romanova patted down Cue Ball more thoroughly, and took his wallet, but didn’t find any other useful weapon.

She tied him to the chair while Clint freed himself. “Someone will have heard that. We have to get out of here.”

“Yeah.” He looked around the room for their weapons; they weren’t there. “What the hell?”

“They must be upstairs.”

“You know where we are?”

“In the sub-basement near the boiler room. I hear the pipes.”

Clint listened closely and heard them, too. “Weird place to have an office.”

“Criticize interior decorating choices later, flee now.”

Clint snorted, and pushed open the door. When no one shot at him, he eased through the opening. There was a short hallway with concrete floors, another door across the hall, some old equipment lining the walls, and a dark stairway at one end. He listened for noise from above, but heard only the _whoosh_ ing from the boiler room, which was louder out here. He waved with one hand.

They hurried silently up the stairs and got to the top, still without any sign of Short Man, Bland Man, or Short Woman. Clint relaxed when they were out of the kill zone of the stairwell. The goons had cornered them in the room with the bodies of the men Romanova had killed, and gassed them; they were well aware, and apparently wary, of how lethal the two of them could be. So were they hanging back for reinforcements?

Romanova tackled him from behind. He fell forward, hard— _I never saw that coming_ — was this, finally, the moment he’d set himself up for in Klaipeda? Belatedly, he heard the shot fly over his head. She rolled off of him, he rolled the other way, got his head up, and threw the pocketknife, burying it in Bland Man’s eye. He screamed and dropped his gun, but not close enough for Clint to grab it. More people were crowding the hallway behind him. Damn it, they were cut off from the room with the bodies and their _weapons_ \--

“Here,” Romanova hissed. She’d gotten one of the doors open, to a large, dimly lit room filled with boxes and pieces of tall furniture. They could play a pretty deadly came of cat and mouse in there. He dove inside the doorway as more bullets flew towards him. Romanova slammed it behind him— it was nice and sturdy— and together they shouldered the nearest wardrobe-looking-thing in front of it. It took both of them to move it; it should stop their pursuit for a few minutes.

The room was storage of some sort, and he didn’t see another way out. They were going to have to fight their way through that crowd of people, get their weapons, and get the hell out of here before the cops showed up. Manhattan was so closely packed it was impossible to hide the sound of gunfire. They would show up, sooner than later. What in here could he use as a weapon? “What was that merger you were talking about?”

“Nothing, I just needed him to come closer.”

“Clever.”

Romanova was searching the room's dark corners. If she stayed still, she was almost invisible. “At least you didn’t get taffeta,” she muttered.

“Hey, I’m not _that_ stupid.”

The room had display cases, too, and not all of them were empty. He shoved a stack of papers off of a glass top and— _ohhhh, yes._ “Anything in here you can use as a weapon?” There was a heavy _thud_ — they were hacking through the door.

She looked at him. “I _am_ a weapon.”

“Less melodrama, more pointy things!” He wrapped his hand in his sweatshirt, turned his head, shielded his eyes, and smashed through the display case. He reached inside, and— yes, this would do _nicely_. He made a few passes with the broadsword. It had been more than ten years since he’d held one, but he’d had a good and demanding teacher— good at teaching swordplay, at least— and Clint still had the muscle memory. Having the thing in his hand unlocked the part of his brain that remembered how to use it. Yes, this would definitely work.

“Like _that’s_ not melodram—“

The back of the armoire disintegrated under concentrated gunfire. Romanova disappeared into the shadows and killed the lights; Clint flattened himself against the wall by the doorway, and waited for someone to be stupid enough to stick a body part through the hole in the armoire.

It didn’t take long. He swung the broadsword in a neat arc; blood sprayed out. The sword was heavy enough that he'd come close to severing the limb. The hand’s owner screamed, and pulled back. Damn it-- if Clint'd severed it, he could have taken the gun.

They concentrated their fire on the back of the armoire, trying to destroy it entirely so they could storm the room. Clint faked a scream of agony. The gunfire lessened. A man stepped, cautiously, into the remains of the armoire. Clint pulled back, then stabbed through the wood into the guy’s shoulder. _That_ scream of agony wasn't fake.

“We need another grenade!” someone shouted. Cue Ball? Hell, but this was _noisy_. It was a wonder every cop in the city hadn’t descended on them already, considering that the ballroom was packed with New York’s rich and powerful. Maybe Severn’d bought them off?

Someone kicked the remains of the armoire and pulled back before Clint could hit their leg. It wavered, then toppled with a _crash_. Clint used the noise as cover to fade back into the darkness. The goons squeezed through the opening two abreast, turning to cover where he'd just been. Clint squatted behind a tall display case and watched them creep cautiously forward. Hell, if there weren't too many of them, he and Romanova could let them all come inside and sneak out while their backs were turned.

The next pair were wearing infrared goggles, which shot that plan to hell. He hauled himself up and launched himself down from the top of the case. He slammed into the two guys; they all fell to the ground on the other side of the doorway. At least one of them had an unfortunate encounter with the tip of his sword along the way. Clint took advantage of their distraction to tear the goggles from their faces. He darted away, pulling one set over his eyes, and tossed the other in the general direction of Romanova’s hiding spot. Could he get their guns, too?

A bullet flew over his head. He dove behind a heavy desk. He heard a repeated _click_ , and then a whispered “Damn it!” Empty gun— no, that didn’t make sense, unless they'd come inside without full clips. Light switch, then. Romanova must have disabled it while she was hiding.

The two in front of him weren't moving. The heat signatures of the other two were heading for the back of the room as more people came through the doorway. The one ten feet away from him, facing the other direction, had a small flashlight in his hand, but it wasn’t on. He must have been hoping to sneak up on them. Clint was better at sneaking. He grabbed the man, got a hand over his mouth, and forced his other arm hard against the man’s throat, nearly stabbing himself with his own sword. The man went limp. Clint lowered him to the ground and searched his pockets. Jackpot: one gun, extra ammo, and two knives.

Where was Romanova? There-- a small white blob staying low to the ground, stalking someone at the edge of the room. He shot the man in the back of the room, then got off four quick successive shots towards the door, dropping three more guys before he had to dive back under cover. If he could get back closer to the door, he could give them a chance at escape.

A muffled _sizzle--_ someone choked out “Gllnrk”-- then smell of burning flesh. _The hell?_ The voice had been male, so not Romanova; he'd figure it out later. There were too many people. Eventually, one of Severn’s guys was going to get lucky.

A man in the hall was holding two more pairs of infrared goggles. Clint aimed carefully, and put one bullet through both pairs. Immediately, a cluster of bullets thudded into the wood of the case right in front of him. Baiting him, or just adapting effectively? The ones in the hall had found cover behind various pieces of furniture, or were out of sight by the door. They were probably preparing to dive low through it, or maybe to come through the ceiling. It was what he would have done.

He slithered behind another display case. There was another _sizzle_ , and the smell of barbecue. That had to be Romanova-- he hoped-- and it sounded like she was systematically stalking everyone who was left in the room. Clint fired into the hallway, taking out two fluorescent lights, and then dove to the ground for cover to reload.

A _crash_ —

_Fuck, I was right about the ceiling!_

Clint whirled, flattening himself to the ground, as five guys dropped on ropes through the foam ceiling tiles. He rolled and came up, diving for the nearest one. He swung the broadsword in a controlled stroke and let the momentum carry him out of sight of the doorway after the man crumpled. The ceiling-- _that’s our way out._ If he could only get some message to Romanova— but they’d taken the earpieces, too. He shot two more guys, got a bullet whizzing past his ear for his trouble, and made it to the edge of the collapsed section of the ceiling.

Another _crash_ by the doorway— he saw the white blur of a body in motion as a heavy piece of furniture fell across the opening, blocking it completely. He spared half a second to appreciate Romanova's quick thinking. As the two remaining guys turned to look at the noise, too, he used the distraction to kill one of them from behind. The other crept towards the heat signature that had to be Romanova— and then she leapt forward, pinning his gun hand at an inoperable angle, and bringing something in her hand down on his arm. His body arched with a _sizzle_ , and he was still. What the hell _was_ that thing?

Time for that later. He caught her eye and pointed up. She nodded. He dragged a piece of debris behind the nearest desk, and propped the sword up on it so the tip just pointed out. Then he dragged the nearest body— the guy he’d choked— behind it. The heat signature might fool them for a little bit. Romanova was already hauling herself up one of the ropes. The attackers outside had opened up on the piece of furniture Romanova'd dropped in front of the door; the noise of the bullets provided plenty of cover for them to escape.

Up above was a crawlspace between the floors, and a trapdoor leading up to the next floor. He stared through the trapdoor, looking for a guard, but Romanova pointed beyond, into the darkness. She mimed shooting a gun, then drawing a bow. He nodded, and followed her lead. Two more walls— that was right— he cautiously lifted a ceiling tile out, and peered down. There was the room where they’d taken him and Romanova. It still smelled faintly of gas, which was probably why it was empty. He dropped down, and found their weapons and earpieces in a heap on the floor, along with his wallet and her tiny purse. His phone was untouched in the bottom of his quiver. He shouldered his quiver, handed Romanova’s gun and knives up to her, and lurked at the edge of the doorway, listening. It was hard to hear anything past the gunfire. He peered around the edge, and motioned her down. No one was looking in their direction. If they could make it around the corner, they could get to the staircase he’d used to come down from the roof.

There was a rear guard posted by the staircase, but Clint put an arrow through his throat before he even knew they were there. Then he stood guard while Romanova picked the lock with a tiny knife. He _had_ been practicing his breaking and entering skills, thank you very much, but he wasn’t used to doing it without actual lockpicks.

They made it to the roof, where they could see the eerie situation below: police cars had surrounded the building, but the officers were still outside. He and Romanova ducked low as a helicopter circled overhead. It didn’t have spotlights, but they needed to get off the roof before they were seen. It flew behind a skyscraper to make another pass, and he took a running leap across to the next roof. Romanova backed up, hesitated, then followed. She landed on the very edge and stumbled; he grabbed her to keep her upright.

“Thanks.”

He nodded. They crouched in the shadow of a huge air condenser and watched the activity below. “Any idea what the hell just happened?”

She shook her head. “I need more information.”

“If all Severn’s guys are here—“

“Then who’s watching his house and office?” Romanova finished.

“Yeah. You think we should hit them?”

“We can split up. I scouted the house pretty thoroughly today.”

Of course she had. “Fine. I have a way into the office.”

They jumped another roof, then descended to street level, heading away from the commotion. They stayed away from cameras and turned away from the ones they couldn’t avoid. He bought a water bottle at the first vending machine they passed, and they ducked into a doorway, using it to get the blood off. He gestured to her dress. “You gonna break in like that?”

“I’ve done worse.”

He shrugged. “Meet back at the apartment, if it’s still clean. Fallback locations—“ He gave her the addresses of a couple of hotels. “My S.H.I.E.L.D. card’s probably been compromised. We’ll have to use cash.”

They split up. Clint skulked through shadows and alleys, being just obvious enough not to _look_ like he was skulking in case anyone saw him. A few blocks from Severn’s office building, he hauled himself up five stories of fire escapes and decorative window ledges until he got to the roofs. He stuck to the shadows of rooflines and chimneys, and made it to Severn's building without any sign that he'd been noticed. He dangled over the edge of the roof, and checked the windows until he found one that was unlocked. Being up high made normal people careless, because they never imagined that anyone _else_ could get up there, too. He opened the window, removed the frame, and swung himself in over the desk. The building was dark and silent. He headed for Severn's office: any incriminating material would probably be there.

The fancy glass office did have additional security. The door to the reception area had an electronic keypad, and there was a motion detector inside. Good thing he'd been beefing up his skills for defeating electronic countermeasures.

He got the door unlocked, and considered the motion detector for a minute. He needed to make two shots, in the correct order, with no margin for error, if he wanted to disable it without raising an alarm. He eased the door open, agonizingly slowly, until he could fit an arrow through the opening. First he destroyed the motion detector’s batteries. Then he knelt to aim at its power cord, almost invisible behind the plastic casing. The wire sparked as the second arrowhead sliced through it. _Moment of truth_. He opened the door.

There was no alarm. _Good._

_… unless it’s a silent alarm_.

He hurried to Severn’s office, picked the lock, and opened the door slowly. The hidden camera in the corner didn’t surprise him, not after the effort the goons at the museum had gone through to get them. He shot it before it could get a good look at him, then searched the room. The desk was bare; the shelves held ostentatious books and high-end knickknacks. He forced open the drawers and hesitated over the laptop. If he just took it, Severn might be able to track it, but it was unlikely that Clint would be able to crack the security on it before he had to get out of there. He grabbed it out of the drawer.

The rest of the desk was useless. He found the safe behind one set of shelves, and shoved them aside to get to the door. The lock was well-made, and he didn’t bother trying to pick it. Instead he shot an arrowhead into the lock, and waited for the acid to work its magic.

It took about two minutes to burn through the lock. He pulled open the door, careful not to get any acid on himself, and checked the safe with a flashlight before he stuck any body parts in there— no need to repeat Romanova’s mistake. He grabbed an old-fashioned ledger-- the second set of books?-- and two hard drives. At the back of the safe was also— _that_ was interesting. Why did Severn have a small fortune in foreign currency?

Not important at the moment. He retrieved his arrows from the office and the reception area, leaving the acid arrowhead in the lock, since it was melted beyond recognition. Then he headed for the office he'd snuck in through. He made it to the roof, and pulled the window shut behind him— just in time. Down below, two SUVs pull up farther down the block. Eight people bailed out, leaving the doors slightly ajar, which meant there was at least one person staying behind, and also meant they were trying not to make any noise. If they were trying to sneak up on him, he must have tripped some sort of silent alarm after all.

He waited until they entered the building, then leapt to the next roof over. Neither of the rear guards saw him-- nobody ever looked up. When he was safely away, he crouched down on a roof behind some air handling equipment, hidden from view from the nearby buildings. He stuck his flashlight in his mouth and used his smallest knife as a screwdriver to take the laptop's casing off. Unless it had come custom-built with a tracker, anything there should be pretty obvious…

Yeah, that blinking blue light was pretty obvious. Clint pried it off the hard drive, pocketed it, and replaced the laptop casing. Then he checked the area, making sure Severn’s goons weren’t right behind him, and climbed down. There was a swanky restaurant up the street, with a cab just pulling up to drop off guys in fancy coats. Clint slipped into a drunken swagger, stumbled against the cab, and slapped the tracker at the bottom of the rear windshield. The cab driver shouted something obscene at him. Clint waved, and staggered away from the cab. As soon as it was out of sight, he made a miraculous recovery and continued down the street, turning left where the cab had turned right.

He found a likely vantage point, climbed to the roof, sat, and waited; if there _was_ an additional tracker on some of the stuff he’d taken, it probably couldn’t detect altitude. He gave Severn’s men plenty of time to catch up, if they were chasing him. When he was satisfied they weren’t, he returned the apartment by a circuitous route. Romanova had beaten him back. She’d changed clothes and cleaned up, and was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, reading through a stack of papers. “Any luck?” He dumped his haul on the ground and took off his quiver.

“Maybe. You?”

“One laptop, one book, two hard drives.” He spotted some sort of disassembled plastic paddles on the ground next to her. “The hell is that?”

She smiled, looking very satisfied with herself. “It _used_ to be an AED. An old one.”

The control box was still attached to the paddles, but it was open, with wires snaking out of it. He remembered the fight at the museum. “You turned it into a, a cattle prod?”

“Basically.”

If he’d ever needed them, she provided regular reminders that she was lethal as fuck. He was glad she was on their side. Probably mostly on their side.

He dropped down beside her, opened the laptop case again, and removed the wireless card and the webcam. Then he booted the thing up and took a look at the contents. He could feel Romanova watching him, but he let her take her time to speak. “Do you enjoy taunting men with guns?” she finally asked.

“It’s one of my favorite hobbies.”

“Like swinging through windows on ropes?”

She had a good memory. He shrugged.

“You don’t have to… _protect_ me,” she said after a minute. Her lip curled. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know. I watched you in Alabama, remember?” _He_ sure remembered. “I’d rather be the one getting hit than the one watching.”

She watched him for a long moment. He didn’t look up. Sometimes he was reasonably certain that she was psychic, and he didn’t want to give away any more than he already had.

“Knew I just had to wait six minutes,” he added.

“Well,” she said. “You… stalled well. Thank you for the cover.”

“Welcome.”

They were both quiet for a few minutes. “There's no guarantee that what we need is on any of these,” she said, gesturing to what they'd brought back.

“Yeah.” He scratched his nose. “That would leave--”

“Upstate, and Florida.”

“You think we should check there?”

“He knows by now that someone's after him. We won't gain anything by delaying, and we'll lose the element of surprise.”

He nodded. “I vote upstate, it's closer.”

“And Severn’s had it longer.” Romanova thumbed through something on her phone, “He’s been there more recently. It looks like he bought the house in Florida to have somewhere nearby his kid.”

Nice of him, or just controlling. “It’s, what, five hours?”

“Yeah.”

He sent a message to Manhattan HQ for someone to come by the safe house and pick up what they'd found. Romanova cleared the apartment while he took a fast shower and got all the blood off. A car went with the apartment, kept in a garage not far away, and the keys were in the drawer. The gas tank was full; they made it out of the city without any sign that they were being followed.

“I checked the news before you got back,” Romanova said, as they headed north. “They were calling what happened at the museum a ‘terrorist attack.’”

Clint snorted.

“Severn was being credited for having bodyguards on the scene capable of bringing down the perpetrators.”

“That’s gonna be awkward to explain, when they realize they’re short a perpetrator or two.”

“I called Intel, asking them to double-check all the details of my cover story. There has to be something that tipped Severn off.”

“Good idea.”

They rode in silence for a while. Clint was starting to feel the blows and bruises he’d accumulated that day, thanks to Cue Ball and to the gun fight. His arm was going to be sore, too. He hadn’t used a sword in a _long_ time, and it used different muscles from a bow, a different range of motion.

As if she’d read his mind— which was creepy— Romanova said, “I didn’t know you knew how to use a sword.”

He let a couple tenths of a mile go by. “Now you do.”

“Where’d you learn?”

“Circus.”

“What else can you do?”

She sounded merely curious, but that didn’t mean much. Since Amsterdam, she’d been-- not more trusting, really, but less wary. But that didn't mean she'd given up her hunt for information, or that she wouldn't use anything he told her against him, at some later date. “I can burp the alphabet.”

“… fascinating,” she said drily.

Clint smirked. “Haven’t figured out how to weaponize that one. Still working on it.”

“Lovely weather we’re having.”

He was startled into laughing out loud. Of all the things, _that_ was the one she was squeamish about?

She tucked her feet up on the seat. “It doesn’t make sense for Severn to have had all those people there at the museum if something in my cover story alarmed him. If he _bought_ my cover story, then he had no idea who I really was.”

“We weren’t out all that long.” There'd been a lot of people in that firefight. Had they all been on the premises at the beginning? Severn didn’t have a private army, and that was a lot of guys for him to have had just hanging around Manhattan, waiting for something to go wrong.

“Maybe they weren’t there for me.” She called HQ, and asked for a list of the gala attendees, cross-referenced with known legal and illegal occupations. The conversation took a while; the clock clicked over to midnight. “Severn’s never gone to this gala before,” Romanova reported when HQ gave her what she wanted. “But several former business partners of his were supposed to be there, as well as someone who recently blocked a hostile takeover he attempted.”

Clint’s eyebrows went up. “Son of a bitch. He was going to kill them all.”

“That would explain why he was so ready with the terrorist story for the press,” Romanova agreed. “And the bank that supposedly holds my money also holds the assets of several groups involved in the hostile takeover. He must have thought I was a corporate spy.”

At least that would give them some cover, keep Severn from guessing their true motivations.

“Damn it, I could have found out a lot at that stupid party,” Romanova murmured.

They climbed higher into the mountains, moving into the more deserted part of the state. Romanova used S.H.I.E.L.D.'s database to get a partial map of Severn's property. He pulled off and took a look at it, so he start to formulate an approach. He noticed the date as he handed back the phone. _So it's that day, again_.

They stopped for coffee at a 24-hour Walmart, then drove the remaining hour. He ditched the car in a deep thicket where it would be nearly impossible to find accidentally. He and Romanova split up to reconnoiter. He headed toward what looked like the best vantage point.

Hauling himself up the tree _hurt_. He swallowed a couple of ibuprofen and settled in the crotch of a large limb, binoculars in one hand, precious coffee in the other. The house was dark, with no sign of any occupants; that probably wouldn't last long. Severn had surely discovered the burglary at his office by now, so he’d should be rushing to check his other properties.

If he was... Clint texted HQ one-handedly, asking them to get eyes on the house in West Palm. If he ignored this place in favor of the Florida one, or vice versa, it would indicate where the incriminating stuff was.

Movement ahead: Romanova, heading noiselessly towards where she’d last seen him, avoiding twigs even in the darkest patches. If he hadn’t been watching from above, he probably wouldn’t have seen her. He tapped his earpiece twice, to let her know she was in the right vicinity, then dropped a pine cone in front of her nose when she reached his tree. She jumped, looked up, and started climbing.

She settled into a split in the trunk. “You know this tree is full of pitch?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you mess up your clothes?”

“I got it in my _hair_.”

“Oh.” Clint ruffled his own hair, all two inches of it. Not something he really had to worry about.

“It’s quiet below,” she said. “No guard posts or lookout stations in the trees. I didn’t see cameras or infrared sensors. I also didn’t see any wires, and solar would be unreliable in the winter.”

“Yeah, I don’t think he’s that paranoid. His office was well-guarded, but the upstairs windows weren’t alarmed.”

“How do you want to do this?”

“You go in, I’ll cover you?”

“Fine.” She studied the darkened house below. “Binoculars.”

He handed them over.

“HQ called as I was down there,” she said, lenses trained on the house. “One of the gala attendees told the police someone blackmailed her into attending by claiming to have a sex tape of her son. She hadn’t been planning on going. The invitation came with the threatening letter.”

“An invitation she couldn’t decline.”

“Something like that.”

They watched in silence for a few minutes more. “I think the east middle window is my best bet.”

“How are you gonna get past the security?”

“Don’t know yet.” She handed back the binoculars and climbed down. He followed, and chose a perch with a better view of the east window. It was high enough to give him a good view, but low enough that he could bail out quickly, if he had to run. He tapped out the pattern for a tranq arrowhead, and nocked the arrow, keeping the string relaxed. He'd started carrying them after Amsterdam. Maybe they wouldn't even have helped-- she wouldn't have taken being shot very well, and the drugs could have made things worse. But it would have been nice to have had the option. It would have been nice to have given _her_ the option.

His ribs ached fiercely. Damn it, those pills weren’t helping at all.

Romanova was up a tree at the edge of a fence. Severn wasn’t stupid; he’d cut back all the boughs overhanging the fence, by a good margin. To get enough clearance to get safely over the fence, Romanova was going to have to go up—

She wriggled onto a bough about twenty feet up, then stood. He reached towards his earpiece; he was pretty sure even her bones weren't shatterproof. Then he stopped. She could make that call herself.

Arms extended, she navigated the swaying bough with unfaltering balance. She paused on the end, bounced the bough once, twice, and used the recoil to propel her up, out, and over the fence. She landed with a neat roll that made Clint-the-former-acrobat jealous. _And a ten from the American judge_.

She crept towards the house, stopped, and pointed. He squinted. Yeah, that was a motion detector. He repeated his trick from Severn's office, taking out the batteries and the power. She used the first-floor window ledge to give her a boost onto the wall, then climbed up to the third story, balancing on a decorative feature on the wall. She pulled something from her pocket; he saw a small blue flash, and then she started prying the window open.

The same thing she’d used to electrocute those guys at the museum? “Should I be concerned about your newfound penchant for electricity?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She boosted the window up, pushed in the screen, and levered herself over the sill.

Then—

“Company.” He listened to the low _thrum_ ming, and tried to estimate the distance.

“I hear it.” He heard soft swearing in Russian. “Third floor’s just bedrooms.”

He kept quiet and let her work. Thirty seconds later, the helicopter was hovering overhead, training lights on the yard. He was hidden, but if they noticed the open window... Was it a coincidence they'd appeared right after she'd opened the window? Had it been a trap? He switched out out the arrowhead for something with more firepower, and checked his gun, though he didn't want to need it. He hated running out of arrows.

The helicopter settled to the ground, disgorging men. “You’re gonna have company real soon,” he muttered. “You want me to—“

“No.” She was panting, and he heard sounds of drawers being opened and closed. “Do they know I’m here?”

“Doesn’t look like it.” His skin crawled, watching the person he was supposed to be covering get cut off from the ground floor exits, but he held his fire, as she’d asked. No, they were taking up defensive positions, not trying to intercept an intruder. “No. But you don’t have long—!”

She muttered something, probably annoyed at his nagging. He didn’t care. This was uncomfortably like watching the beginning of Amsterdam, all over again, and look at how well _that_ had gone.

He saw movement on the stairs. “Someone headed upstairs.” He wriggled backward on the bough, to better cover the second floor hallway, and winced. _That knot could not be in a worse place on this tree._ He tried to wiggle around it. _Fucking a tree was not on my to-do list today._

_Or EVER._

Movement in the hallway distracted him from his dick’s problems: Romanova, coming out of a room. But she wasn’t alone; as she ducked into the next room, four men on the stairs reached the second floor. One of them gestured down the hallway; two split off, opening the nearest doors, peering into the rooms, and then moving on. The other two continued upstairs. One man opened the door to the room Romanova was hiding in, glanced inside, and closed it again. Good, but in a second the other two were going to—

Two heads appeared above the stairs. They looked his way, then did a double-take— at the open window. _Damn it_. One lifted a walkie-talkie to his mouth. On the second floor, the men got a lot more serious, checking their guns and teaming up to search each room. They didn’t double back, but when they got to the end of the second floor, and there wasn’t anyone there or on the third floor…

“I’m coming out the front,” Romanova whispered.

He tapped his earpiece in response and turned to aim that way— _ow, fuck, DAMN IT_. If he had to shoot someone off Romanova’s back, he needed something less explosive, or he risked hurting her with the shock wave. He switched arrowheads, again. _I’m not comfortable with the way this tree is touching me._ He saw her around the side of the house. She inched forward, her back to the wall, and made it to the corner.

“Do you have the—“

“Cleared out everything I saw.” There was no way for her to reach the safety of the woods without crossing the bare lawn and then scaling the high fence. He could do something about the fence.

— but maybe _she_ wasn’t the one who needed to get past it.

“Stay down,” he ordered, and tapped out the pattern for another arrowhead.

“What are you—“

“Getting us a ride out of here. Come around to this corner on my mark, stay against the wall. Copy?” He nocked the bow.

“… copy.”

He was relieved she trusted him without making him take the time to explain. “Three, two, one…” He exhaled, releasing the arrow. “Mark.”

She dove around the corner. The arrow arched over the house and hit the garage on the far side. He tapped the grip of his bow, and blew up the garage.

Romanova inhaled sharply, surprised, right before the shock wave reached him, rocking the tree and sending him— _AAAAAAAAH, FUCK_ — backwards along the branch. “Meet me at the chopper!” he ordered breathlessly. He scrambled down as the door to the house banged open. He grabbed the fence, pulled himself up to the top, and leapt down the other side. Men were swarming around the burning garage, but no one was looking in their direction. It hadn't yet occurred to them that the explosion had originated outside the garage.

He pounded across the ground to the helicopter's open door and threw himself inside. “Can you _fly_ this thing?” Romanova asked incredulously.

“Man of many talents.” He fumbled for the controls without bothering to take off his quiver. It would take time to get the rotors up to speed, and until then, they were sitting ducks. He got the blades going; Romanova crouched at the open door. She dropped the first man to get around the corner, then the second, then the third. The fourth got a lucky shot into the windshield, but it only cracked, and then Clint was hauling up hard on the level, taking them up as fast as they could go. He spared a look to make sure Romanova hadn’t fallen out— she was flat on the floor, ankles hooked around a seat, shooting down— and sent them skimming over the trees.

“WHERE THE HELL ARE WE GOING!” she yelled.

“AWAY!” He kept climbing, getting them—

“BARTON!”

“See them!”

The noise dropped as she pulled the door closed and scrambled into the second front seat. “What is—“ She recognized it before he did. “Where the hell did they get a rocket launcher?!”

“Damn it, _Coulson_ ,” he muttered, banking hard back over the house to put it between them and their enemies. He dodged the first rocket easily, but caught an unfortunate tailwind, and had to drop to keep from presenting their entire side as a target. They lost a dangerous amount of altitude. They’d be an easy target, unless— he dropped more, until they were barely skimming across the top of the canopy, dodging the highest trees. Tail-on, at the tree level, they should be a lot higher to hit—

The ground rose suddenly. He narrowly avoided a collision by hauling back on the lever. They’d be sitting ducks if they climbed that ridge straight up. He veered hard left, then turned them back pointing towards the house, trying to regain some altitude. Another rocket roared past— what the fuck, these guys were basically _shelling upstate New York_ — and the helicopter rocked with the near-miss. He varied their altitude, keeping the enemy from getting a good lock on them.

“Do you know how to fly?”

“No!”

So much for shooting his last explosive arrowhead out the open door. He could give her a fifteen-second crash course, she’d pick it up quick, but keeping them in the air and dodging rockets were two very different things. He turned back towards the house.

“What are you doing?!”

“Plan B!” He climbed, climbed, climbed, juking as he got closer— _damn it, they always put the sensitive control on the RIGHT_ \-- they made it directly over the house without getting hit—

There. Far below, the gunner's hand tightened, and another rocket exploded out of the launcher. Clint threw them to the side. The rocket passed close enough that the helicopter rocked, hard. Then he pushed them forward, because Severn's guys had just shot that thing straight up. _Straight_ up. That wasn't gonna end well for them.

When the rocket dropped back down and exploded, he nearly lost control of the helicopter in the shock wave. He pulled out of the dive with the skids scraping the trees, and circled to get a better look: yeah, that had taken out the rocket launcher, all right, _and_ the rest of the house. _Hope what Romanova found was what S.H.I.E.L.D. needed_.

“You,” Romanova said quietly, barely audible over the blades, “are certifiable.”

He grinned. He started to say that was high praise coming from her, but thought better of it. Unlike her breakdown in Amsterdam, his flying never hurt anyone that he wasn’t _trying_ to kill— Phil’s grey hairs didn’t count as casualties— and therefore could be joked about. “Why, thank you.”

The rotor died.

“Fuck.”

One of the close calls must have damaged something— no time to figure it out now. He pulled up the pitch with one hand and tried to get it to restart, tried again, then focused on making an unpowered landing. They dropped. He tried to keep them pointed in a straight line— up ahead was some sort of road, that should do—

They came in fast, hit hard, skidded, and bounced. His head slammed into the side of the glass, and he saw stars, or maybe sparks coming from the controls. He turned off the engine, and didn’t notice much else until the blades were stopped and Romanova was slicing off his seat belt. She pulled him up. He grabbed his bow and half-stepped, half-toppled out of the cockpit. They sprinted into the woods; he followed her, running on auto-pilot.

His lungs were burning when they stopped on top of a low rise. By some miracle, the helicopter wasn't on fire. It should take people a while to notice it was there. They needed to get their bearings and get out before people started swarming the area. They needed to… His head was spinning.

“How do you feel?” Romanova asked.

“Charming,” he said. “Oh, so charming. It’s alarming how charming I feel.”

She stared blankly. “Yeah, this is alarming.”

“I’m fine. Great.” He hurt all over, but she didn’t need to know that. “You?”

“Fantastic.”

He looked her up and down: no blood that he could see, no obvious injuries, and she hadn’t been running with any noticeable stiffness. He took out his phone, holding the screen so she could see it. There was a weak signal, but it was strong enough to pinpoint their location. “We’re here.”

“The car’s on the other side of the house.”

Yeah, he’d noticed that, too. “What did you take from the house?”

She unzipped a pocket and held up a handful of flash drives. Why had his life come to revolve around flash drives and hard drives and ledgers? Probably because S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn’t used Romanova for anything besides information transfers, yet. _One day, I will go back to just being the guy who shoots things_. “We need to get those to base.” He plugged the first one into his phone to stream it back to HQ in case they got captured.

“I think I saw an airport as we flew over.”

He nodded: he remembered that, too. “We should be able to steal a car there.” He found it on the map. It was a regional airport, big enough for jets; there should still be someone there at this time of morning, if only security.

They reached the edge of a large, open field, just as another helicopter appeared overhead. It flew low and circled, shining bright lights on the tall grass. They should be out of sight in the trees, but until it went away, they couldn't cross the field without being seen. He crouched under a massive tree, grateful for the respite even though it meant they were in danger. He _hurt_.

“You’re sitting funny,” Romanova observed.

He shifted uncomfortably. “I’m fine.”

“‘Fine,’” she agreed. He could hear the sarcasm.

“I had an intimate encounter with a tree branch,” he snapped, and _dared_ her to laugh.

She didn’t _laugh_ , but her breathing went all choky for a minute. Well, that was better than nothing. “Poor Hawkeye.” Her voice was suspiciously light.

“If you tell me to grow a pair, I swear to God, I’m leaving you here.”

“I would _never_.”

She dropped the subject, for which he was thankful. He checked the progress of the file transfer, and saw the date. Again.

“You’re upset.”

He hesitated. “Anniversary of a death,” he said, in a clipped tone that he hoped would get her to drop it. _Talking about my balls would actually be preferable._

It didn’t. “But it’s a death you feel ambiguous about.”

He turned to stare at her, hard.

She looked back, unrepentant. “Reading people is _my_ life's blood,” she said, “and you don't look sad.”

Was she trying to make some sort of point, about what had happened back in the basement? He wished she'd picked something else to make a point about. “Someone who watched me get beat nearly to death and then left me to finish dying,” he said, surprising himself.

She tilted her head. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Never saw him again. Don’t know.”

“But you know that he’s dead.”

“Yeah, I pulled the police report. Drank himself to death in Tulsa. Died in his own vomit.” He paused, not sure why he was telling her this, but it felt good to tell _somebody._ Wasn’t that fucked up. _Let me tell you about how shitty my family was, it’ll cheer me up_. “He, uh, he... was my brother.”

“Oh.” She sounded blank.

He smiled grimly. _Don’t pry into the undersides of people’s lives if you don’t wanna uncover something raw and messy, Romanova._

“When was this?”

“That he died? Seven years ago, now.”

“And you’re, how old?”

“We’re done with this.” He waited for her to argue. She didn’t.

The first flash drive finished transferring. As he switched it for another, as the helicopter gave up searching and flew away. They split up the drives between them, so if one of them got captured or killed, S.H.I.E.L.D. could still recover something; then they crossed the field. They could probably make it to the airport in an hour, and be out of the county in another hour.

The helicopter seemed to return out of nowhere, on top of them almost as soon as he heard the blades. _Fuck!_ He dove for the ground. Romanova went the other way as a spotlight swept through the trees. The heavy cover of the branches would give them some protection, but the way the helicopter had known just where they were—was one of the flash drives was rigged, or something? _Why wouldn’t it be rigged? Severn rigged the damn laptop. Why didn’t I check?_

“Run!” he shouted to Romanova. She gave him a mutinous look, but obeyed. He ran in the opposite direction. The helicopter had to follow one of them; it chose her, hovering just above the tree line. _Bad choice_. He armed his last explosive arrowhead, put it on the string, and clicked his earpiece to constant transmit. “On my mark, duck and find cover,” he warned her. He sighted, aimed, exhaled, and shot. The arrow took the helicopter right under the blades. “Mark!” He watched her throw herself over a low rock shelf. Then he triggered the explosion.

The helicopter tore in two-- no chance of its pilot auto-rotating to a safe landing like he had. He ducked as pieces landed in the canopy, triggering a rain of branches. The two big chunks landed—

— Something was burning. “Run!” he said again. He sprinted down the slope. Romanova burst out of cover just ahead of him. They were evenly matched, here; she was better at avoiding obstacles on the ground, but he was better at seeing them. There was a decent-sized stream at the bottom of the slope. If they could make it that far—

— Romanova tripped and fell. He slowed, reached down to help her up as she got her feet under her, and the fuel tank exploded.

He tackled her to the ground as the shock wave reached them. They hit hard. Hot, hot air streamed over his back, and debris slammed into the soles of his shoes— but he wasn’t actually on fire, so…

He lost a minute there. The next thing he knew, he was on his back, quiver digging into his spine. Romanova had her fingers on his throat, checking his pulse, and her other hand on his chest. His head was spinning. “You chivalrous idiot,” she muttered.

That irritated him into expending the effort of a reply. “‘m not _chivalrous_ ,” he rasped. “Was behind you.” He pushed himself into a sitting position. _More things hurt. Fuck._

“... Thank you.”

“Mmnnghwelcome.” He took the hand she extended, and let her half-pull him to his feet. “That way?”

“That way,” she confirmed. They raced away from the growing fire.

The universe cut them a break: there was a downed tree across much of the stream, so they stayed mostly dry. The ground rose, and they climbed steadily until they needed their hands for balance. His estimate of the time required to get to the airport hadn’t taken into account the hills. _Damn it._

He listened carefully for signs of other pursuit, then— “Stop a minute.” He squatted, and in the dim light from his cell phone, carefully examined all the flash drives. “One of these—“

“You think that’s how they found us?”

“Yeah.” He put them down on the ground, fished his flashlight out of his pocket, and looked at them more closely. “Was there anything special about where any of ‘em were?”

“No. They were all in the same drawer.”

He balanced each drive on the tip of his finger. One of them balanced differently than the others; there was something heavy at one end. “I need your sharpest knife.” Hers were smaller than anything he carried.

Instead, she held out her hand. He gave her the drive, and held the flashlight as she split it open at the seam. Yep: a little black ball that didn’t look like it belonged. She pried it off and dropped it in a crack in a nearby rock. “What about the others?”

She opened them, one by one, and found another tracker that he would have missed. She stuck that one to a nearby tree. They kept running.

Another half an hour took them to the airport. They headed for the parking lot, but-- _Shit_. “Severn thought ahead of us.” They hesitated in the shelter of some low oaks and watched the occupied cars parked by the exit. It made sense, in retrospect; the nearest town was miles away. This was the closest and most obvious place to steal a car. Severn's people knew what both of them looked like, and trying to go out the entrance would just be obvious.

“We could take them.” Romanova sounded doubtful. If they killed every one of Severn’s people, the sudden radio silence would send up big red flags. And if Severn rustled up some more air support, they’d be sitting ducks in any car. “Or hide in the trunk, and wait for someone to leave?”

Most of the cars were in long-term parking. They wouldn't be going anywhere any time soon. There were cars in the employee lot, but it was early, early morning; people would be arriving, not leaving. He shook his head, and turned to watch the terminal and the tarmac. “I wanna check things out over there.”

They hid in tall grass at the edge of a drainage pond. There were no passenger planes at that time of the morning. He squinted towards the cargo terminal. Nobody in or out there, either. He settled in for a long wait, and hoped something would break in their favor before Severn’s guys got restless. They could leave and try to find a car to steal somewhere else, but Severn would probably anticipate that, too; it wouldn't be an easy trip. At least here, his people had to stay out of the airport's immediate airspace. He shifted, winced at the pain in his ribs, and didn’t miss the fact that Romanova was watching him sharply.

There was a song stuck in his head, or really just a line, something he’d said— she’d said?— earlier. _An invitation she couldn’t decline_. “Caviar and cigarettes, well-versed in etiquette, extraordinarily nice, she’s a killer queen…” he sung under his breath.

“What are you talking about?”

He looked at her. “You’ve never heard Queen?”

“Someone offered me a hit on _a_ queen once.”

“Romanova, you’re breaking my heart here.”

“You’ll survive.”

All his bandwidth was being used to transfer the contents of the drive; streaming a song would only slow it down. So he sung it instead: “A built-in remedy for Khruschev and Kennedy, an invitation you can’t decliiiiiiine…”

Romanova was absolutely silent, watching him as if he were a bizarre alien as he sang it— quietly-- from start to finish, imitating the wailing guitars as best he could. That was the funnest part, actually.

She was still silent after he was done.

“Is that supposed to be about me?” she finally asked.

“Uh, no? Think it’s about a call girl.”

“Hmm,” she said. Then: “How much of that was meant to distract me from your injuries?”

“What? None.”

“I don’t understand how you can bluff your way through an interrogation so well and be such a terrible liar.”

“I’m a great liar.”

She gave him a look that said she wasn’t buying his shit. “Are you bleeding?”

“Nope.” He knew the signs of internal bleeding. “If I start pissing red, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I hope _you’ll_ be the first to know.”

“... yeah.” He wriggled, trying to find a more comfortable position. “I'm surprised you don't know how to fly.”

“The Red Room had helicopters. They didn't want us knowing how to escape in them.”

“Mm.” He started transferring another drive. There was a distant roar. He looked up, and saw a freight plane coming in for a landing.

He perked up. “There’s our ride.”

“You know they don’t always heat the holds?”

He smirked. “Who said anything about the hold?”

“You can fly _that?”_

He grinned. “‘Course I can.” He dug out his phone, and called HQ. It rang, and rang; it was the dog watch. Finally someone picked up the line.

“HQ, this is Hawkeye,” he said. “I’m about to steal a UPS plane, I need you to make sure the FAA doesn’t scramble fighters to shoot us down.”

Pause. “Say again, Hawkeye?”

He repeated it again, slowly and carefully, and pictured the poor, low-ranking agent who'd gotten stuck with the graveyard shift, pulling his or her hair out. “Give me a minute, Hawkeye.” The agent sounded resigned.

He grinned again. “Take your time.”

Several minutes elapsed. The plane landed, taxied towards the hangar, and started refueling as the packages were unloaded. Then a familiar voice came on the line. “Hawkeye, what are you doing?” Coulson didn’t sound happy. The agent must have woken him.

Clint felt a twinge of pity, but not much, since he was the one huddling battered and bruised in a drainage ditch. “Stealing a cargo plane, sir.”

“Give me your situation.”

Clint summarized briefly what had happened: “… then we found the trackers and came to the airport to steal a car, but Severn’s guys already have it staked out.”

“So you want to steal a plane instead.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have any other options?”

“They all rely heavily on luck or someone else’s schedule.”

Clint pictured Coulson rubbing the bridge of his nose, like he did sometimes. “I’ll have it cleared for you in ten minutes.”

“Thank you, sir,” Clint said cheerfully. Coulson hung up. Clint studied the plane, looking for any signs of damage, and trying to gauge the level of fuel. It would make things easier for S.H.I.E.L.D. if he could put the plane down at its intended destination.

Romanova was watching him, with something that could have been admiration, or wariness, or both. He didn’t ask; if there was a problem, she’d tell him, and it was a little gratifying to be the surprising one in their partnership, for once.

“What’s your plan for getting on the plane?”

He hadn’t gotten that far. “Uh. What do you think?”

Her lips twitched. “We could start by walking.”

“Yeah, that sounds _great._ ”

She arched one eyebrow. “Looking like you belong will get you a _long_ way.”

True; he'd used that to his advantage before. He collapsed his bow and wrapped his quiver in his undershirt to disguise it. Then he tugged his shirt back on and followed Romanova along the fence, closer to the plane. One acid arrowhead later, they had a hole in the fence. But-- “There's still someone in the cockpit.”

“Name?”

Where had he left the binoculars, several hours and multiple explosions ago? _Right_. He fished them out and stared hard at the man in the cockpit. He relaxed his eyes and put together the shape of the letters on the man's badge. “Warren. G. Warren.”

She pulled up the UPS staff directory on her phone, then a search engine. She scrolled quickly through phone numbers and old newspaper articles. Then she dialed a number. “Yes, hi, this is Amélie Warren.” Her voice was high and accented with New York. “Is my husband there, Garrett, Garrett Warren? Copilot on 5X75? He has a stopover there tonight, and he’s not picking up his cell phone—“ She paused. “Yes, could you call him to the phone? It’s urgent, it’s one of our kids— oh, thank you so much.”

Thirteen seconds later, Warren stood abruptly and raced off the plane. Romanova muted the phone.

“Nice,” he said appreciatively.

“Some distraction?”

He shot a smoke arrowhead high over the fence. It arced downwards and buried itself in a patch of grass, on the opposite side of the terminal from their target. Once smoke started billowing and people started running out of the terminal, they jogged across the tarmac. What little security there was, at a small airport at three in the morning, was busy dealing with the “fire”; miracle of miracles, they made it to the plane unimpeded. Once they were both on the flight deck, he shoved the stairs away from the door, and closed it behind them. He sat down in the pilot's seat, starting a pre-flight check. “This is gonna be fun,” he muttered. The flight computer and the auxiliary power were already on. He brought the first engine online. He was going to need Romanova's help to fly this thing, so he'd have to walk her through it. And they weren’t going to get airborne before someone noticed something was wrong. “Let’s hope Coulson came through.”

“Has he ever not?”

“No.”

The phone squawked: “Amélie?”

She unmuted it. “Garrett! Oh, thank God.”

“What’s wrong? Are you-- the kids—“

“We’re all-- fine.” Romanova started to sob. That was a nice touch. If Warren thought her voice sounded unusual, he'd put it down to the tears.

“Honey! What is it?”

“It’s Michelle,” Romanova said between sobs. “I caught her— I caught her in bed with a man.”

There was a pause. “Um. Is she, is she—“

“A _thirty-year-old_ _man!_ ”

“Oh my God!”

Romanova sobbed harder.

“Is she all right?”

“She’s fine, she’s fine,” Romanova said shakily. “She’s mad. She says she _loves him_.”

“Okay— okay,” Warren said. “I have to make this run to Pittsburgh, but I’ll be home as soon as I can. Just—“

“I called the police,” Romanova said, “but they said as long as it was— as long as it was, consensual, they couldn’t do anything because she’s seventeen.”

“Okay,” Warren said. “Okay. Just— try to keep everyone calm, stay calm, and when I get home we’ll sit down and figure out… what the fuck to do.” He paused. “She’s not— she’s not pregnant, is she?”

“ _Garrett!_ ”

“It’s a possibility! Maybe you better ask?”

Romanova cried noisily.

“I swear, honey, I’ll be home as soon as I can. Just stay calm for now, and I’ll be there by noon.”

“Hurry,” Romanova insisted.

He started to ease the plane away from the terminal, bringing the second engine up.

“Listen, Amélie,” Warren said. “I have to go, wheels up is in—“

The radio crackled. Romanova muted the phone. “Flight 5X75, you are not cleared for departure.” Hubbub, then: “Flight 5X75, who are you?!”

A new voice: “This is Wilcox Regional Airport Security: unknown persons on flight 5X75, power down the plane immediately, I repeat, stop moving and power down.”

Clint flipped on the speaker. “Flight Control, this is, uh, Captain Spook, we’re ready to head for Pittsburgh as soon as you give the okay.”

They didn’t like that very much. “Flight 5X75,” Security snapped, “the Air Force has been alerted. If you take off, you WILL be forced down.”

_Come on, Coulson_. Clint eased the engines open, pushing them faster down the runway. He didn’t want to be dodging Raptors in a cargo jet. He gave Romanova terse instructions to help him finish all the pre-flight stuff. Up ahead, he saw police cars and ambulances racing onto the runway. _Oh my God, tell me they’re not attempting a blockade_.

Romanova had the same thought. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He pushed the throttle forward. “This could get ugly.”

It was looking like they were going to have to play a game of chicken when the radio crackled again. “Flight 5X75, this is Flight Control, you’re cleared for takeoff on your original flight plan.” The controller sounded _very_ unhappy. Up ahead, the vehicles pulled off the runway. “I hope you know how to fly that thing,” the controller added, “because if you don’t, we’re not cleaning up the mess.”

Clint grinned. “This is Flight 5X75, we copy.”

Before he released the switch, Romanova leaned forward. “Flight Control, please inform First Officer Warren that his family is fine,” she said, her voice silky-smooth.

Warren must have been listening to the radio, because outraged sputtering came over the phone. Romanova hung up. They got up to speed, Clint pulled them up smoothly… and they were air-borne. He climbed as fast as they safely could— if Severn’s guys had picked up that something fishy was going on, and if they had another rocket launcher, this was gonna be a real quick flight.

But they made it into the clouds without explosions. He felt like he was flying a tanker, blind; cargo jets were the minivans of the skies, slower, less maneuverable, and with poorer “eyes” than anything S.H.I.E.L.D. usually fielded. But he'd flown one before for S.H.I.E.L.D. This time, there weren’t ninety terrified refugees stuck in the hold with a erratic heater, with Coulson making a valiant attempt to calm them even though he didn’t speak their language. And this time, they had plenty of fuel. And they weren’t fleeing a war zone. This time was practically normal.

He checked the instruments for anything that could possibly present a threat. “You ever delivered the mail before?”

She shook her head mutely, watching everything he did. He relaxed a bit, now that they were out of immediate, apparent danger. Settling back, he winced. It all hurt _worse_.

Romanova took out a bottle of pills, and shook a few into her palm. She held out her hand; he took them from her, and swallowed them. “Thanks.”

“Do you normally take pills from strangers without asking what they are?” Her voice was the same smooth, dangerous tone she’d used with Flight Control.

He smiled. “I’m flying this thing, so you have an incentive not to kill me.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I was lying about not being able to fly.”

“Okay. Say you can fly this thing on your own. What do you get out of killing me?”

She seemed surprised that he was playing along. “Maybe I’ve, uh, always wanted a… cargo jet.”

“Yeah? I’ll get you one for Christmas,” he promised.

She checked the phone. “We still have signal up here.” She switched out the flash drive for the next one.

Good move: they’d gotten away, but there was no guarantee they’d land safely. “It’s a S.H.I.E.L.D. phone.”

The sky was starting to lighten by the time PIT air traffic control picked them up. They were directed to land in a far corner of the tarmac, which would have been ominous had he not seen the sunglassed-figure waiting there.

It took a while to shut the plane down. Coulson waited patiently, not moving a muscle that Clint could see. He couldn’t blame Coulson for the occasional melodrama; Coulson showed restraint. It wasn’t like he went swanning around in a leather trenchcoat… just as an example.

Finally Clint unstrapped himself. Romanova hauled open the door; he let her jump down first. Coulson didn’t move, making _them_ come to _him_. Yeah, he was pissed.

“We received your file transfers,” Coulson said when they came within earshot. “Intelligence cracked the encryption on the hard drive you left behind about forty-five minutes before you landed. It contains two years of contact between Severn and H.Y.D.R.A..”

The _hard drive_ — _Damn it_. Clint gave Coulson a disbelieving look. “Might still be something interesting on the flash drives.”

“Mmm.” Coulson vaguely acknowledged the point. “We decrypted part of it. H.Y.D.R.A. hasn't been pleased with him lately. They started watching him more closely, and forcing him to manipulate his business contacts.”

Romanova picked up on it first. “The ambush was H.Y.D.R.A.?”

“Yes.”

So they’d been the ones at the museum, and probably at the house, too. “Explains why they had helicopters and a rocket launcher.”

“Mmm,” Coulson said again. He started walking towards the waiting unmarked plane.

“What happened in Manhattan?” Romanova asked.

“As soon as we had the information, we scrambled operatives to take Severn. It wasn't easy, but we got him without H.Y.D.R.A. knowing exactly what happened. Now we have him as bait.”

So that was why Coulson was pissed. Not only had he had to deal with the FAA on their behalf, but they’d been on a useless side trip when S.H.I.E.L.D. could have used their help in Manhattan.

Clint still didn’t care. _Check with me in three days when things don’t hurt. Or maybe next time give us better intel so we don’t walk right into the middle of a terrorist trap._ He followed Coulson onto the plane, took off his quiver, and sprawled across three seats, intending to be dead to the world as soon as possible.

*

He sprinted down the corridor and skidded around the corner. There-- the right room. He banged on the door. “Romanova!” He knocked again, loudly. “It’s Barton. We need you. Hurry u—“

The door opened.

“—up.” He looked down at her. She was wearing dark sweats, her arms crossed over her chest, and was watching him without expression. “Get dressed, I can give you sixty seconds.”

She shut the door in his face. “What’s going on?” she called.

“Some trainees got pinned down outside Atlanta, they sent out a distress signal, the closest S.H.I.E.L.D. agent responded, they all got captured, this is a rescue mission.”

“Who responded?”

“Agent Phil Coulson.”

“Is that why they’re sending you?”

“No. They’re ‘sending’ me because I’m good.” One of the most successful field agents close enough to get there in time, in fact. He bristled with impatience: he’d called wheels up for three minutes from now.

“Where are they being held?”

“An old military base. Apparently it’s not so deserted any more.” _Come_ on _, Romanova…_

“Who has them?”

“We’re not sure.” The door opened, with seven seconds to spare. He gave her a onceover— dressed, weapons, good. “Come on!” He took off sprinting for the hangar.

“Why me?” she called from behind him.

“Because you’re also good!”

They reached the bay with thirty seconds to spare on his deadline. He pounded up the ramp, and hit the door close button as soon as she was inside. All his people were there. He’d briefed them all already, before realizing that Romanova was probably on-base.

“ _This_ was who he went to go get?” someone muttered behind him as he stowed his quiver behind the cockpit and slid into the pilot’s seat. His co-pilot, Thibodeaux, already had the route punched in and the engines ready to go.

If he was going to have people problems, he needed to address them now. “As you should have noticed, we have one more person on this mission, Natalia Romanova, also known as the Black Widow.”

A distinct silence from the back of the plane. He resisted the temptation to grin, and pulled on his headset, hoping she could sort out anything else.

The route would take them to Coulson’s last known location, pulled from his phone before it’d gone dark, via a series of valleys where they could stay low to the ground. It was a risky route, which was why Clint was flying it himself. They eased out of the hangar, turned on to the runway, accelerated, and were airborne.

It was a quiet ride— good; if anyone had last-minute nerves, he or she was keeping them private. That happened, even with a seasoned group like this. Thibodeaux watched the radar. “Bad storm’s coming up,” she murmured. “Should hit just around nightfall.”

“Good, we’ll use it for cover.”

She eyed him, but didn’t say anything. Her willingness to accept his more unorthodox ideas was one reason she was one of his favorite co-pilots. The fact that she was a damned good flyer was another.

They found the edge of the storm. He glanced back at the cabin. “Keep a hand on your stuff, it’s gonna get bumpy.” Wilson, who was sharpening a knife, hastily slipped it into its sheath. Good call.

Then he needed all his attention to keep them in the air and on their original course as they bounced through the clouds, buffeted by strong winds. No one would see them coming, that was for sure. “You see anything from the base, yet?”

Thibodeaux shook her head. “What, you can’t see through the storm clouds, Hawkeye?”

“Left my x-ray goggles in my other uniform.”

He brought them lower until they picked something up. They were gambling here, that S.H.I.E.L.D.’s instruments were better than whoever was down there. “Here.” She overlaid the energy signatures on the plans they’d pulled from military archives. “Looks like they’re here, but pretty far down.”

He stared at the readings. “The hell is that, lead-lined flooring?”

“It was an old test site.”

“Point.” He activated the mike. “We’ve got a reading on the base, a possible location for the occupants. Agent Wilson, your team is gonna put down on the far side and come around the back. Your priority is to find the trainees and get out.”

“Sir.”

“Agent Jefferson: you guys are the distraction. Attack from the front, lay down covering fire, but don’t actively engage unless you have to. Don’t get sucked in.”

“Got it, Agent Barton.”

“Thibodeaux, Rawlings, Mercer, you’re our rear guard, you stay with the plane. Henderson and Lu, you too. We’ll call for you if we need medics. Thibodeaux, keep the engines hot.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n.”

“What about you, Agent Barton?” someone called from the back.

“Reconnaissance. I’m gonna get in, find our people, and take out as many as I can between them and you. Wilson, if I’m out, you have command; Jefferson, you’re her second. Romanova, you’re with me.”

They swooped low over the side of the valley, putting down just long enough for Wilson and her team to scramble down the ramp. Then he took them straight up the rock face, and made a large loop around to the other side. Jefferson and his team went in hot, making no attempt to conceal that they were there. Clint pulled up fast. He didn’t want whoever was down there knowing about or tracking the plane.

He set down on a small rock shelf, easily defensible if necessary. “Seal ‘er up,” he ordered, swinging his quiver to his shoulder.

“Aye-aye, Cap’n.”

“Damn it, Tibs.”

Tibs grinned unrepentantly. Her cheerful willingness to give professionalism the finger at every opportunity was another reason he liked her.

Romanova followed him silently out. The ramp closed behind them. They climbed the little distance to the valley floor and started for the base, staying low. He could hear the gunfire from the front, and listened to the chatter going back and forth. Wilson’s team was holding position; Jefferson’s people hadn’t encountered anything serious yet.

They got into the base undetected by sneaking in on the far side from where Tibs had picked up activity. He noticed Romanova’s gloves as he gave her a hand into the ventilation shaft. “What’re those?”

“R&D heard about the AED paddles and made them for me.” She pressed a hidden button, and blue electricity crackled between two points on the knuckles of the glove.

“... stay away from puddles.”

They heard noise sooner than they should have. They followed the noise, and found a section that was lit. This section hadn’t lit up the sensors, so either it wasn't used much, or it was heavily shielded. He tapped his earpiece. “Be advised, there’s a section on the west side of the base that looks like it has some sensor shielding, the situation may not be what we expect,” he said softly. He heard clicks of acknowledgement, and kept going. Up ahead was a wider shaft, and the voices were coming from—

Romanova grabbed his ankle, and pointed down a side shaft when he looked back. It was too narrow for them— they were pretty much stuck in the main ducts— but through one of the first vents, he saw Coulson. Restrained, somehow, but Clint couldn’t see anything more than that.

“Boss, we could use an extra set of eyes.” It was Wilson’s voice in his earpiece. “Something’s not right here, might be a trap.”

He tapped his earpiece once to acknowledge. “How fast can you get him out?” he mouthed.

She shrugged. “A minute?”

“Do it faster.” He opened the grate; she lowered herself down, and got out of sight immediately. He kept going.

Romanova locked her earpiece on— not the best tactical decision from his end, but understandable, since she was alone. She opened the door; then he heard a lot of thuds and screams as she tore through the room. None of them were her or Coulson, so he focused up ahead.

The noise stopped. “Forty-four seconds,” Romanova reported, out of breath. “Coulson helped.”

“Is he—“

“He’s fine.”

“Talk to me,” he heard Coulson say.

“What?”

“Give me the situation. Sorry. Sometimes I forget you’re not Barton.”

“I’ll try not to be offended,” Romanova said, deadpan.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Damn it, he’d forgotten to give her— “Tell Coulson I have an earpiece for him.”

“Tell him yourself.”

_What?_

“Barton.” Coulson's voice came clearly over the line.

Clint patted the pocket where he’d put the earpiece: empty. “Did you pick—“ _Damn it, Romanova._ He pushed aside both wounded pride and grudging admiration.

“Orders, Agent Barton?” Coulson asked.

It was a little weird to be giving Coulson orders, but this was Clint’s cavalry brigade. “Where are the trainees?”

“On the other side of the compound. They separated us as soon as we got here.”

“I’m headed there now. What else can you tell me?”

“They’re American. Well-trained. Knew who we were, not what we were doing here. Sorry; haven’t been awake very long.”

Clint waved away his apology, then remembered Coulson couldn’t see him. “’s fine.”

“Orders?” Coulson repeated.

Clint hesitated. “You and Romanova, find out who these guys are and what they want.”

“Acknowledged.”

Clint abandoned the safety of the shafts for the greater speed of the dark hallways, listening for any sign that someone was coming. He knew when Romanova and Coulson first encountered opposition, because he heard a _crackle_ and a _thump_ , followed by the _thuds_ of fist hitting flesh. They were behind him; that meant there were enemies behind him, which meant he could get a bullet in his back. How far had he gotten? He was cutting straight across the vaguely circular building. He should find the trainees before he found Wilson’s team. They’d called for eyes at least five minutes ago. He started to run faster.

Finally he saw light up ahead. He promptly wished for the darkness back, because it made sneaking a lot easier. He took to the ventilation shafts again. That slowed him down, and severely limited his movement: only the main ducts, radiating out like spokes on a wheel, were big enough for him.

No sign of the trainees, yet, but he was seeing more people. Men and women in some sort of pseudo-military uniform, and some in white lab coats with clipboards. He tapped his earpiece. “There are a lot of people out here,” he muttered to Wilson. “What’s your position?”

“About a hundred feet inside the edge of the base. There’s light up ahead. I sent two agents to scout,” she whispered back. “Any sign of the trainees?”

“Not yet. We found Agent Coulson, though, he said they should be here.”

Below him, two squads of soldiers thundered by at a run, heading towards the front door. “They’re buying the distraction, at least for now. But there were still a lot of people left in this wedge of the building. Damn it, he hadn’t expected to find a rogue paramilitary operating under everyone’s noses in the middle of the country. When they got back, Intel was going to be very interested in the question of why they hadn’t known about this place.

“Agent Barton.” Coulson spoke softly. “They’re A.I.M.”

“Damn it!” That explained the shielded building.

“What’s A.I.M?” Romanova asked.

“Advanced Idea Mechanics. Scientists. Megalomaniacal scientists. Terrorists. They were part of H.Y.D.R.A., once.”

“Do they experiment on people?” Her voice was dangerously soft, and Clint didn’t think it was because she was trying not to be heard.

“Focus on the matter at hand,” Coulson told her.

“Oh, I’m very focused.”

Clint tapped his earpiece. “Romanova, your radio’s locked on.”

“Sorry.”

“We’re pulling what we can from their computers,” Coulson said, “but—“

An alarm started to wail. “Intruders. Detected. Intruders. Detected,” a robotic voice intoned. The speaker must have been in the ceiling, because it was deafening.

“Oops,” Coulson said.

Clint tapped his earpiece. “Jefferson! They know we’re here. We need you to keep as many of them busy as you can, but watch out for an attempt to take you out.”

“Copy that.” Jefferson sounded strained. “I don’t think we’re going to have to watch very hard.”

Outnumbered, still with no sign of the trainees, and likely to be cut off soon, if A.I.M. had as many people as it looked like. _Shit_. Time to call for reinforcements. Clint tapped his earpiece— and it blasted static.

_FUCK_. Leave it to mad scientists to be able to get past S.H.I.E.L.D.’s safeguards. Better that they were suppressing transmission altogether than eavesdropping, but the likely outcome was the same either way: dead agents and a failed mission.

He considered their options: fall back, grab Wilson’s team on the way out, hope to run into Romanova and Coulson, and circle around for Jefferson’s team, _if_ they could get out again. _I’m not leaving those kids here_. Option two: find the trainees, get them to safety, and make enough of a distraction to buy them time to escape. He checked his cell phone, just in case. No signal. Not much chance that A.I.M. would forget about that.

_Hunting time._

He pressed forward, counting soldiers and scientists and tracking their movements. Up ahead was a—

Wait. Backtrack. What was that?

Down a side shaft, he saw a large room holding a bunch of people in S.H.I.E.L.D. uniforms. _Bingo_. He waited until the hall was clear, dropped quietly to the ground, popped around the corner, and put an arrow through the chest of each of the A.I.M. guards before they could make a sound. So far, so good.

Door access was controlled by biometrics. He grabbed one of the bodies and pressed her hand to the scanner, hoping they hadn’t also installed a secondary check— they hadn’t. The door slid open. The trainees looked up quickly, scrambling to their feet— their apparently aimless movement concealed the worst-hurt woman at the very back of the group. _Nice._ He counted heads— seven. Worry about that in a minute. “You’re gonna go out this door, turn right, and turn right again. The ducts in the main hallway are big enough to fit you. You’re gonna crawl left, and keep going straight until you hit darkness. Here—“ He handed his flashlight to the nearest trainee. “It’s a straight line out to the edge of the base. Don’t try to turn down any shafts you can’t fit. If you don’t find Agent Wilson’s team before you get out, just keep going. Get as far as you can. There’s a S.H.I.E.L.D. plane parked up in the hills, on that side. Questions? Can you walk?”

“I’m fine,” the woman at the back said, bravely— stupidly— trying to stand on both feet.

“We’ve got her,” the woman next to her said crisply. She grabbed the other woman’s arm and pulled it across her shoulders.

“What about Duncan?” said the man who had his flashlight.

“Where is he?”

“We don’t know. He made it out that door about ten minutes ago—“ He pointed to the locked door at the back of the cell. Now that Clint looked closely, he could see that the keypad had been opened and clumsily reassembled. “— but the door slid shut again as soon as he let go of the wires. We couldn’t get it to work. He couldn’t open it from the other side.”

“I’ll find him.” He guarded the hall while the trainees hurried past, and did a head count, just to be safe: Kiplimo, who had his flashlight; Gutierrez; Liang; Moore, being supported by Hill; Hayes; and Pan. Good.

He checked the cross-corridor: clear, so far. Gutierrez gave Kiplimo a hand up. He pulled open the vent cover. Clint stood guard, arrow nocked; Pan covered their backs on the other side. Kiplimo climbed up, then Liang— Clint's skin crawled as they stood so exposed—

“HEY!”

Clint whirled and shot over Pan’s head, getting an arrow through the A.I.M. soldier’s throat before he could make any more noise. He dove past the trainees, nocked another arrow, and fired it down the hall; it released billowing clouds of smoke, buying maybe half a minute. Moore, then Hill, then Hayes--

“Sir!” Gutierrez said.

“Get out of here!” Clint didn't turn. He stared hard through the smoke— S.H.I.E.L.D. never issued boots like those. He sent three more arrows flying through the smoke. Screams indicated that they’d met their mark.

“But how are you going to—“ Pan’s voice; Gutierrez must have climbed up.

“I said GO!” He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that Gutierrez was hauling Pan up. Clint shot another arrow into the smoke, grabbed the vent, and wedged it back in place. He looked up: they were already gone. Good.

He needed to make sure that anyone who’d seen the kids enter the vent was dead, and that A.I.M. was too busy to find their missing prisoners. And he needed to find the other kid. He retreated back to the cross-corridor and opened the door again. The guards’ bodies were cooling; the palm-print scanner barely recognized the signal. He hauled both bodies inside and let the door close. _This is going to be really stupid if I can’t_ — He pulled open the access panel for the back door. It was a rat’s nest in there; the kid had stripped the end of every wire in the box, and probably tried them at random. Clint was able to guess the right combination with his second try. _Good thing I've been beefing up on my electronic countermeasures._ The door slid open, revealing a dark hallway. Remembering what the other trainees had said, he released the wires and dove through.

The door closed behind him instantly. He used his cell phone— still no signal— to check out his surroundings. Right or left? Faint footprints in the dust to the left; he turned that way. Three minutes’ walking took him to a larger cross-corridor, also dark. It dead-ended not far to his left, which must be where the lit section started.

_An old test site_. What kinds of things had been kept here in the dark? Or maybe still were?

Not a productive train of thought. He turned right. The floor got cleaner, which meant he was coming up on a more traveled area. The lights were still out. Where _did_ this place get its power, anyway? Maybe the darkness had a mundane explanation: rationing. There— light up ahead, dim light, and a faint humming. He rounded the corner and saw rows and rows of servers stretching across a huge room. He started cautiously across—

“— copy!”

Their communications were back. He tapped his earpiece twice to acknowledge, and listened to the babble. Jefferson’s team was holding its own out front, but Wilson’s team was bogged down in heavy fighting towards the center of the base. _Damn it, the trainees don’t have any earpieces_. He—

Footsteps approaching, fast. He slipped around the corner of an aisle and crouched low to the ground. He saw a terminal at the far wall, with a short blonde kid hunched over the glowing screen, typing furiously— That was Duncan.

Clint took three steps towards him. A squad of soldiers appeared from the far hallway and saw the kid. They shouted— the kid ducked behind the terminal, but it was terrible cover, and Clint barely had a clear shot— he was way too far away—

One soldier fell clutching at the knife in her throat. Another dropped in a blur with something dark and fast-moving. He saw a flash of red hair, and the third soldier fell hard against the wall. The fourth already had his gun in line— Romanova grabbed his gun arm and forced it up until his weapon pointed at the ceiling. The soldier swiveled to punch at her unprotected torso, but she got a hand under his throat. There was a flash of blue, he convulsed, and collapsed. The third soldier staggered to his feet; Clint finally cleared the end of the aisle, and put an arrow through his back.

Romanova looked down at her hands. “These are _nice_.”

There was a pause. “Glad you like them.” Coulson untangled himself from the motionless body and brushing himself off.

Duncan slowly stood up again, eyes wide.

“What are you doing here?” Clint demanded.

“I’m a hacker. I was helping!”

Coulson’s eyes narrowed. “ _You_ set off the intruder alarm?”

“I also turned off the jamming!” Duncan said quickly. “Helping!”

Coulson just shook his head; all the same, Duncan shrunk back against the wall. “Agent Barton, what’s the situation?”

“I found the kids and sent them outside. Don’t know if they made it. Wilson’s team is farther in; they’re pinned down, and they haven’t seen the kids. Jefferson’s group is still outside.” He looked at Duncan. On his own, away from the ventilation shafts, he didn’t have a prayer of making it back out alive on his own, which meant… “Romanova, take him and get him out.”

She looked unhappy, but didn’t protest. Someone had to do it, and between her and Coulson, she didn’t have very much experience with the organizational side of an operation like this. He didn’t doubt she’d perform admirably if she had to, but Coulson was _Coulson_. And while head wounds always bled a lot, hers looked pretty bad. She took a gun off of one of the soldiers and tossed it to Duncan. “You know how to use that?”

“Um. Ma'am, yes, ma’am.” His eyes were wide.

“Then move.”

Clint listened with half an ear to make sure they got safely away. “We gotta get to Wilson,” he told Coulson. _If_ they could cut them loose, and _if_ the kids had made it outside, then they’d be golden.

Coulson was examining what Duncan had been doing. “Well, he’s not totally incompetent.”

“Anything we can use?”

“It looks like he got into the mainframe. There’s a map.” Coulson disarmed another one of the soldiers, sliding the gun into his empty shoulder holster.

Clint memorized the map. He got through to Wilson and got a more detailed idea of her location, then pinpointed her group on the schematic. “Right, okay…”

Using the map, they made it to the lit section of the building quickly. Gunfire echoed loudly; he hoped it was Wilson’s team, and not the trainees. He smelled the acrid scent of burning electronics. Their time was running out.

Wilson’s team was pinned down in the remains of an old cube farm, doggedly guarding their exit while slowly being forced backwards across the room. Luckily for everyone who wasn’t A.I.M., Clint and Coulson found them by virtue of coming up behind the A.I.M. soldiers. He dropped out of the vents and started firing, picking off the rear guard first. His quiver was about half-empty now. It took A.I.M. far too long to notice that there was someone with a silent weapon behind them. When they turned to meet the new threat, Wilson’s team took advantage. Coulson joined in with his stolen gun. It was over quickly.

“Casualties?” Clint searched what looked like the highest-ranking body.

Wilson shook her head. “We’re battered but good to go,” she said breathlessly. Clint gave her a sharp onceover, taking in her bruises and the amount of blood soaking her uniform, and decided she was exaggerating but not outright lying. He’d take it.

Ah— he came up with a magnetically-striped ID card, and the guy’s earpiece. “You seen the trainees?” He fit the earpiece into his other ear.

Wilson shook her head again. Disappointing, but not surprising.

“Our best way out is straight back until we hit the wall,” Coulson said. “We’ll be cutting across old offices, and they know the ground better than we do, but those open corridors would be a killing ground.”

Clint nodded once. “You heard the man. Let’s go.”

He had the best eyes; he took point. They passed through a lit, deserted area, then a darkened area. Through his purloined earpiece, Clint heard when A.I.M. discovered the battleground in the cube farm, but they started searching the main corridors first, assuming the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had chosen the quickest retreat.

“They found the plane.”

It took him a second to realize that was Romanova’s voice, in his other ear. He tapped that earpiece. “Report.”

“It’s shut down. They’ve got it guarded by a squad. The door’s closed, I don’t know what happened inside.”

_Damn it_ — All of them? Tibs, the other pilots, the medics, and the guards?

“Excuse me a minute,” she added. There was a long pause. “Squad’s taken care of.” She wasn’t even breathing hard. “Opening the door—“ Another pause. “They’re, uh. They’re all down.”

“Fuck,” Clint whispered.

“No, wait, I smell—“ She coughed. “It’s a gas.” Her voice was strangled.

“Get out of there!”

There was a long pause. He imagined six bodies in the plane now— or seven? Where was Duncan? Then she came back: “Venting the inside.” She still sounded strained, but her voice was stronger. “I think— yeah. One of them’s got a pulse. Checking the others. Hey, you, get in here.” So she still had Duncan, good. A longer pause. “They’re all alive, but they’re not waking up.”

“AIM has a lot of nasty concoctions,” Coulson said, from where he and Wilson had the rear. Clint had forgotten he was on this channel, too. “It could have long-term effects. Be careful. It’s probably not just knock-out gas.”

“Underst—“

Clint barely missed getting his nose snapped off by the arc-welding robot that appeared out of the darkness before him. _Damn it, Barton, mind on what you’re doing!_ He scrambled backwards, windmilling his arms to keep his balance, and heard everyone else pile up behind him. He put an arrow in the thing’s… neck-joint, but it reached up and snapped it off. It swung another limb out from behind its back, some sort of laser cannon, and in the light of the glow at the end, he saw through the face-piece— _not_ a robot, a person inside a suit. “Down!” he yelled. He dove for cover as the thing started opening up. Something exploded above him; a large piece of debris hit him, and he blacked out temporarily.

He came to. Something was very wrong. The cannon was still firing, so he couldn’t have been out that long, but it wasn’t actually the giant murderous body armor, it was—

_Where was his bow?_

Not in his left hand. Not in his right hand. Not anywhere around him that he could feel— He opened his eyes just in time to see Coulson painstakingly nock an arrow, pull the string back halfway, and fire.

It didn't have enough force behind it, and his aim was _terrible_. The arrow flew over the suit’s head, and lodged in the ceiling—

— where it caught fire, right beneath the smoke detector.

Okay, he should give Coulson more credit.

The sprinklers came on with vigor. The suit obviously hadn’t been designed to stand up to water— a prototype, then, which explained why it was hidden inside this base, and not out terrorizing the world. The feet slipped, and the whole suit fell flat on its back with a deafening _crash._ The laser cannon swung towards them, but the angle was too steep, and the worst it could do was fire into the wall over their heads. Then the suit shorted out, buzzing and sparking, and the cannon went dead.

But the brief delay had given A.I.M. a chance to close in on them. His stolen earpiece had gotten knocked out somewhere, but he could hear the footsteps coming up fast from behind. “Move, let’s go!” They had no idea what else was up there, but they knew for _sure_ what was coming after them—

They had one piece of luck: the next section of the base was through large metal doors, and the controls were still operational. They slammed shut, and from inside the wall came the sound of heavy locks sliding home. As long as there was another way out, they'd just bought themselves a little time.

There was another way out. It was through a series of labs full of prototypes, a few operated by hidden scientists, some inert, and some gone completely haywire. By the time they made it out through the last lab, they were more than battered. Coulson was taking point now, because Clint was carrying one of the casualties, a small, light woman who was unconscious and badly burned. They made it to a hallway, and just as Clint realized this one curved— _we made it to the edge_ — his earpiece activated: “The trainees made it out,” Romanova said.

_Thank God._ Now all they had to do was get out themselves. There was an emergency exit fifty feet down the corridor.

“Agent Barton, they’re pulling back inside, they’re practically abandoning the front door,” Jefferson said in his ear. “Should we pursue?”

“No, hold your position!” Why would A.I.M. pull everyone back, except to—

— to chase the group who had just gotten themselves trapped on a rock shelf?

The little plateau backed up against a low cliff, too high to get everyone up it. Clint could have managed it, maybe, but without rope, the rest would be stuck. Was there anything up there for his grappling arrow to latch onto?

—and then A.I.M. soldiers were shooting through the door, and he had to dive for cover.

“Romanova! Is there _anyone_ awake up there, we need air support now.” Three of his pilots were up there, and the rest were with Jefferson.

“No,” she said. “Hey! Any of you pilots?” she asked the trainees.

He could have told her the answer: no. “Jefferson, we need backup. How soon can you get around to the west side?”

“Not very soon.” He sounded strained. “There’s rough ground between us and you. We’re on our way.”

_Fuck_. More soldiers were taking up positions at the door, covering the others as they advanced onto the shelf. It was going to be a massacre. Clint leaned out of cover to shoot one, two, three soldiers at the door, trying to clog the doorway with their bodies, but the return fire was so heavy he had to duck back down. A.I.M. had another advantage, too: outside was illuminated with the moon and stars, but S.H.I.E.L.D. was shooting into heavy darkness. Even Clint was having trouble aiming.

He heard something coming from above. _We’re done for._ But then he recognized the engines. “Tibs?”

No answer.

“Thibodeaux, report.”

No answer. He switched channels as the noise of the engines got louder. “Romanova, what the hell is happening?”

“Busy!” The engines roared—

“I didn’t know she could fly!” Coulson shouted.

_Fly_ was being generous. The plane lurched over the edge of the cliff, bouncing like a drunken sailor at closing time. The gun lowered—

_Oh God, don’t let her hit us_.

— she didn’t. Her first burst took out half the soldiers at the door, and the second blew in the doorframe. AIM retreated in disarray. Now that he could stand up long enough to aim carefully, he nocked his last smoke arrowhead, and shot it into the corridor, where the smoke would fill the facility instead of blowing back in their faces.

“I wonder who taught her,” Coulson said.

Clint didn’t say anything.

“You wouldn’t happen to know, would you, Agent Barton?”

“‘Taught’ implies intent, Agent Coulson,” Clint said. “And there is _no way in hell_ I would ever teach someone that badly.” He tapped his earpiece. “Are you gonna land that thing, or what?”

“Uhhhhh… do I have a plan B?”

“No!”

He had to give her this, she was a fast learner. He walked her through the landing, and she got the plane down with only minor damage. The ramp lowered; as soon as it touched the ground, his people started loading their wounded. Clint scrambled aboard to take the controls, nearly tripping over Duncan, who was staring towards the cockpit with what looked like awed, adoring lust—

“FUCK!” Romanova yelled from the cockpit.

He looked at her, then heard the sound coming from the opposite direction— _Aw, fuck is right_. AIM had some massive flying _thing_ heading their way, coming fast. He had an explosive arrowhead, but he’d only get the one shot at it— he stared at the silhouette, trying to figure out how it worked—

“It’s taking air in the top,” Coulson said over the earpiece.

Clint nodded. “Take us up!” he called.

“There're still—“

“We’re coming back, just take us up NOW!”

He stood on the open ramp, legs spread wide for balance as Romanova got the plane to lurch upward into the air. He tapped out the combination for the right arrowhead, nocked the arrow— “HIGHER!”

The plane jolted. He nearly fell out, and dropped his center of balance to compensate. Just a little bit more, a _little bit more_ —

The huge grey thing opened up with a huge grey gun, and Romanova pulled them up ten meters to get away from it. His carefully planned shot vanished. He couldn’t even see the intake vent any more— he inched down the ramp, balancing precariously on the end— there it was— he exhaled—

and shot.

It flew true. He threw himself backwards, grabbed the support strut to keep from going over the edge, and _then_ triggered the explosion. A sound of rending metal; he hoped everyone below had gotten to cover in time. Romanova straightened out from her wild fishtail and brought them into something with a passing resemblance to a steady hover, just in time for him to see the big grey machine, now on fire, crash into the center of the base. “Jefferson, tell me you were clear of that,” he panted.

“Clear, boss. Was that _your_ shot?”

“Uh, yeah.” He clicked off. “Okay, take us back down— no, wait.” He ran to the cockpit and slid into the co-pilot’s seat, pressing the sequence of buttons that would transfer control to his side of the console. Immediately, the plane stopped feeling like the circus’s broken Tilt-A-Whirl.

They landed on the rock shelf. Romanova climbed out of the pilot’s seat. Her eyes were wide, and her hair was plastered to her face with sweat. He grinned at her, feeling the same adrenaline rush she was feeling. “Terrible job flying. Great job rescuing.”

“I had an incompetent teacher,” she retorted.

And that was something to save for later, that either she’d been lying about not knowing how to fly, or she’d picked all that up from one trip in a helicopter and one in a cargo jet. _Later_. He stowed his bow and twisted in his seat to make sure all his people were getting aboard. It would be a cramped trip, but they’d manage.

“Nice shot, Agent Barton,” Coulson said, reaching up behind the cockpit bulkhead for the first aid kit. “Very nice.”

Clint shrugged off the compliment, secretly pleased. “Give me the right place to stand, and I can shoot the world.”

Coulson gave him a Look.

“What? I’m getting edumacated, sir.”

“Clear back here!” Wilson called, and hit the ramp button. He did a head count, made sure they were all there, and took them up, at a velocity that wouldn’t turn anyone’s stomach. Thirty seconds brought them to Jefferson’s team, and they scrambled on board—

The explosion rocked the plane, sending Coulson and Hayes flying into the bulkhead. _What the hell NOW?_ “We’re all on-board!” Jefferson yelled. Clint twisted to look and confirm, and then took them up as fast as he could. When they gained altitude, he could see the big picture; it looked like the base was self-destructing. S.H.I.E.L.D. would be pissed, they would have salivated over the chance to take apart an intact A.I.M. base, but Clint had absolutely no pity for them. They’d gotten the kids out, and they were all still alive-- Coulson and Hayes had joined the ranks of the unconscious, now, but they were all breathing, and that was what counted.

_If A.I.M. stuck some sort of booby-trap on this thing, I will come back from the dead and dismember them with my bare hands._ Clint pointed them towards Missouri.

*

Phil woke up staring at the ceiling in the medical bay.

His head hurt. At least they’d spared him the indignity of a hospital gown. He was still in his trousers and shirt. He had an IV in his right hand, and a monitor on his finger.

He turned his head, and saw Barton sitting in the chair by the side of the bed, boots up on the sheets, looking considerably worse for the wear. He was, almost successfully, hiding his smirk. Phil had said enough sarcastic things to him, on the many occasions their positions had been reversed, that he probably deserved it. Farther back, lurking uncertainly in the doorway, was Romanova.

_I’m… confused_. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the causal chain that had led to this situation. But Phil didn’t think he lacked for imagination, and yet, six months ago, he would not have been able to imagine a scenario where the Black Widow was at his sickbed in a peaceful capacity.

“Ninety-five minutes,” Clint said.

Phil didn’t really need anyone around when he woke up. Clint was projecting— or, more likely, returning the favor. Phil wasn’t unappreciative.

“Blow to the head, docs said no sign of swelling, might keep you overnight for observation,” Clint continued.

“Are—“

“No fatalities. Four gunshot wounds— that’s total, two were the same person— one serious burn, one twisted ankle, three significant abrasions, some concussions. The doctors are watching the five who got gassed, but they did wake up, and they seem fine so far.”

Phil nodded.

“Most of those were the agents. The munchkins came out pretty well.”

“What have I told you about referring to S.H.I.E.L.D. members as characters from the Wizard of Oz?”

“Is this still about the time I called Agent Robinson the Wicked Witch of the West? That was taken _entirely_ out of context, and—“ He twisted around to address Romanova, then did a double take. “How long has she been gone?”

“A while.”

“Did you see her go?”

“Not until she was gone.”

Clint stared at him.

“I mean, I saw where she wasn’t,” Phil tried again.

Clint stared at him.

“... Did they give me painkillers?”

“Yep.”

“Damn.”

Clint swung his feet to the floor. “Well, I hear Director Fury is coming to scold you, so I’m going to find a safe, secure, and undisclosed location several miles away.”

_Double damn._

Clint stood and stretched. “Y’need anything, Phil?”

‘Take me with you’ was not, unfortunately, a viable request. “No. Thank you.”

Clint nodded and headed for the door. “Hey, Clint,” Phil called.

Clint leaned back around the doorframe. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for busting us out of there.”

Clint gave him a cheeky grin. “Happy to save your ass any time you need it, boss.”

*

She discovered the existence of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s internal mail system when a small box showed up at her door. Her room number was written on it, and the upper left-hand corner said CLINT BARTON in uneven block letters. She didn’t recognize the handwriting— she’d never seen his writing— and if someone were trying to lure her into a false sense of security, this would be a good way to do it.

So she waited until the third shift and broke into a lab. There was no explosive residue on the package, and it showed up on the X-ray as a dark lump. She opened it carefully, and took out… a small plastic model of a cargo jet.

She stared at it. She could think of three ways to kill a man with it, but she was pretty sure that wasn’t what Barton had intended. Finally she took it back to her room and stuck it awkwardly on top of the stack of library books, where it looked like a ridiculous paperweight. Explosives would have been more easily understandable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one more chapter, plus an epilogue, in this part.


	8. Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've learned how to paint my face, how to earn my keep, how to clean my kill  
> Some nights I still can't sleep, the past rolls back, I can see us still  
> You've learned how to hold your own, how to stack your stones, but the history's thick  
> Children aren't as simple as we'd like to think.
> 
> \-- "Children's Work," Dessa

S.H.I.E.L.D. took the training wheels off after she helped save their asses, which was how she found herself in the elevator of an exclusive hotel in Paris, kissing a tall, slender, handsome man who just happened to be a globally known narcoterrorist. She tightened her arms around his neck— not to a degree that was dangerous, not yet; if the elevator doors opened on their boss’s corpse, the bodyguards waiting outside the penthouse suite would be perturbed. She could always break his neck later, _if_ she wanted the main event to be over so quickly— and leaned up against him on tiptoe, teasing his lips with the tip of her tongue, but pulling back when he tried to do the same to her. With gentle fingertips and a hint of nail, she drew small circles in the short hair at the base of his neck. He shivered.

The elevator slowed, and dinged. He stepped back, looking reluctant, but held on to her hand and grinned at her. “Would you like to come in for a nightcap?” he asked politely, as if they hadn’t just been sucking each other’s faces off.

“I’d be delighted,” she replied, with a sly grin. He had a reputation for being charming— born to a wealthy family, educated at the best schools, skilled at riding and polo and all those other banal activities that marked someone out as ‘upper-class’. Apparently, his reputation was enough to distract women from the fact that he ran drugs and used the proceeds to finance offshoots of A.I.M., H.Y.D.R.A., and other shadowy organizations S.H.I.E.L.D. took an interest in. He sat at the center of a global web, connecting the drug trade with the terrorism trade— rather like a spider, in fact. Appropriate, that S.H.I.E.L.D. had sent _her_.

They walked hand-in-hand to his door, which was flanked by two tall, muscular bodyguards. One of them stepped forward and murmured something she couldn't make out in her mark’s ear. Whatever it was, it wasn’t ‘that woman is an internationally renowned assassin, you should reconsider your sex life,’ because her mark nodded, and the bodyguard opened the door for them.

There were two more inside: one sitting at the kitchen table, and the other sitting unobtrusively on the balcony, hard to see from both inside and out. She knew from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s briefing that the one inside was her mark’s head of security, a longtime and trusted associate.

“All quiet tonight, David?” Her mark kept a firm grip on her hand.

David looked up from the papers he was studying with a slight grin. “Yes, but I suspect it won’t be much longer.”

“David,” her mark said, with mock reproach. “You’re insulting my lady friend. We’re just going to have a drink.”

_Just_ , his captain mouthed as her mark continued towards his sitting room door, still holding her hand. The door was thick and well-fitted, and once it was closed, cut off all the sound from the other room. Convenient… for both of them.

He turned to her. “Could you be convinced to skip the drink?” he murmured, toying with a lock of her hair.

She let her gaze fall to his lips, then met his eyes again. “Convince me.”

She shivered as he stroked up her bare arms, grasped her shoulders gently, and pulled her close. He bent down— even her tall shoes didn’t bring her to his height— and brushed his lips against hers. “You’re very beautiful,” he whispered, “and I would take it as a great personal favor if you would take off your clothes, get in my bed, and let me make love to you. Repeatedly. At great length.”

She leaned up and lightly nipped at his bottom lip. “That’s _reasonably_ convincing… maybe I should inspect your drink selection, before I decide?” She made a show of looking over at the small bar.

He raised an eyebrow. “Do I need to be more convincing?” He ran his hands down her back, up her sides, and cupped her breasts. It didn’t escape her notice that this let him check her for a concealed gun or knife. She wasn’t carrying one. She wasn’t there to shoot him. 

He kissed her more forcefully. She moaned. She slid her hands under his shirt, then up his chest. Encouraged, he slid one hand up her inner thigh, stopping a few inches from her panties. _Nope, no holster there either, but nice try_. She stepped back and looked up at him through her eyelashes. “What if I told you to pick two?”

He blinked, then grinned, looking befuddled. A good deal of much-needed blood was currently occupying his dick, which probably wasn't helping his comprehension. “What?”

“I can take off my clothes _and_ get in your bed,” she murmured, running her thumb along his jaw, “or I can get in your bed _and_ let you make love to me… or I can take off my clothes, and let you make love to me.” She looked pointedly at the furniture. “I’m sure we could work something out.” She twined her other hand through his hair.

He laughed. “You’re a tease.”

She pouted. When he bent to kiss her again, she gave him her hand instead. He kissed the back of her wrist; she let her fingers curl against the intricate filigree bracelet on her other wrist. He kissed the base of her palm, then the pad of her thumb, his gaze locked on hers. When he turned her hand to straighten her fingers, so he could kiss those, too, she thrust her fingers deep into his mouth.

He pulled away, gagged, and reflexively swallowed, looking repulsed and turned off… and then his eyes widened, too late, when he realized he’d swallowed the pill she’d given him. She pushed him backwards onto the sofa, so his body wouldn't fall with a _thud_ , and forced a pillow over his mouth so he couldn’t cry out.

Cyanide wasn’t as quick as a broken neck, which was why she’d chosen it; she wanted him to know he’d been killed. But its reputation as a fast and efficient killer was well-deserved. He stared up at her, struggling weakly, tears in his eyes. He convulsed, his whole body arching up, and then… went limp.

She waited. Without removing the pillow, she checked his pulse. When she was satisfied that he wasn’t faking, she tossed the pillow onto the couch, and hauled the corpse into the bed in the next room. She took off his shoes, and arranged him so that he’d look like he was sleeping, at a casual glance. Then she pried a small, short-range earpiece out of her bracelet; she hadn’t been able to risk her mark finding one in her ear, so she’d carried it in the same way she’d carried the cyanide. “Objective completed,” she murmured. “Exiting now.”

She received a click of acknowledgement, and looked around the room. The balcony was on the same side as the one with the bodyguard, but the windows opened over the street below. She took off her shoes, tugged up the sash, leaned out, checked for any observers, and climbed over the ledge.

Three floors below, she snuck in through an unoccupied room and used the stairs for the rest of her descent. There was one service entrance that didn’t have cameras. She waited until the hallway was dark, crept out, and made it out of the alley without being seen. She didn’t hear any sirens. By the time the body was discovered, and the media started buzzing with the news of the murder, she was on a plane, on her way back to Missouri.

*

Her temporary handler debriefed her on the plane, so she was surprised to land and find an order to report to Coulson. She found him in an office that was evidently his, piled with neat stacks of paper. He looked up when she opened the door, and waved her to a seat. He looked tired. He looked _worried_.

“What's the problem?” she asked.

“It's Agent Barton.” He put down his pen. “He was wounded on a mission in Tennessee. Medical there gave him a shot of something he's allergic to. He, um, responded poorly, and left the med bay abruptly. He hasn't been seen since.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Define 'left abruptly.'”

He sighed. “Started hallucinating and fled into the vents. We do have confirmation that he left the base. I was hoping you might have an idea where he went.”

She shook her head. “He hasn't contacted me.” Not that she would have expected him to.

Coulson was watching her carefully. “The two of you have been in multiple missions in that part of the country. You don't have any idea where he might have gone?”

Not Tennessee, but-- she thought of a dark trip through the mountains of North Carolina, directly adjacent. Coulson was still watching her. She fidgeted with his office supplies for a minute. She thought, hard. “No. I'm sorry.”

He looked suspicious. “Let me know if you think of anything.” Then he just looked grave. “I'm not sure how much time Clint has, with his wound.”

“I will.”

She was _tired_. She stumbled against the doorframe on her way out. But there'd be no sleep for her, not for a long time. She showered and put on fresh clothes. Then she stood on her table, pried open the air vent, and reached inside for her stash. She'd accumulated it bit by bit: skimming a little cash, here and there, from what she'd been given for missions; hiding spare weapons; lifting ID cards from agents in the mess. But what she really needed were the cards for her own identity, retrieved when S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't looking. On the dress-buying trip to Manhattan, she'd ditched her escort long enough to retrieve two passports and a driver's license from a safety deposit box. She'd used a secure computer in North Carolina to have a new bank card overnighted to the genetics building, and had plucked it from the mail before anyone else had noticed it. When they'd sent her back to Manhattan-- and told her in _advance_ she was going there-- that had just been the icing on the cake. She had three sets of ID now, with passports to match, and one even matched her real name.

She put what she needed in her pockets and bundled the rest as tightly as she could. No point in putting it back in its old spot-- if S.H.I.E.L.D. had a reason to search her room, that was one of the first places they'd look. She tucked it under her arm and took it with her. At this time of night, she easily found a men's locker room that was deserted enough to sneak into; she scaled the lockers in the darkest part of the room, tucked the bundle on the dusty top, invisible from below, and made it out before anyone noticed she was there. 

She got two pieces of luck when she got to Coulson's office: he was already gone, and the wadded sticky note she'd tucked into the doorframe had kept the lock from catching. She eased it open on its track far enough to trigger the door release from inside. Unsure of how much time she had, she locked the door again, and moved Coulson's mouse. He hadn't logged out, and he'd left recently enough that the computer hadn't done it for him.

Most of the interesting stuff was behind additional layers of security, but recent medical alerts weren't. She scanned the information about Barton: knife wound, to the right side of his chest. They'd given him a tetanus shot, an antibiotic, and a sedative. Shortly after they'd gotten the stitches in, he'd knocked over the nurse, started raving, and escaped into the vents. They'd tracked his phone to just off base, where they'd found it lying in the mud.

_Well, this should be fun_. He'd had the right idea, though, about S.H.I.E.L.D.'s tracking. She put her phone on Coulson's desk, and scrawled on another sticky note: _I lied. I've gone to get Barton_. Then she slipped out.

When she made it outside, there was a shuttle loading non-resident employees to take them off-base. She casually joined the line. A tired guard was perfunctorily checking IDs before she let people board the bus. Natalia showed the stolen S.H.I.E.L.D. ID that looked most like her. The guard didn't even look twice.

The bus dropped them in the nearest town. She walked until she found a highway; an eastbound trucker picked her up and took her about two hundred miles down the road. He left her at an exit with a 24-hour box store. She took several thousand dollars out of one of her accounts, and bought a bag of food, some water, an atlas, a burner phone, a wide-brimmed hat, and a box of hair dye. At the 24-hour fast food place across the street, she stole the “Out of Order” sign from the back of the roster in the restroom, stuck it on the door, and came out ten minutes later with black hair. Then she walked across town to the interstate, and found a southbound ride. 

Hitching took her through the night. She had to put up with the leers of the drivers, but she'd tolerated much worse before. The one who actually tried to put a hand on her found himself abruptly without the use of that hand. She made sure he could still steer with one hand, so he wouldn't crash before the numbness wore off, and bailed out with her stuff. 

At dawn, she was nearly six hundred miles from the S.H.I.E.L.D. base, drinking strong black coffee in a travel plaza as she studied the atlas. Better to get a car now than try to find a driver taking the narrow, ill-used road she needed. She tugged her hat more firmly over her head; she'd seen what S.H.I.E.L.D. could do with photographs, and she'd been careful to keep her face and her body off camera.

She got a lift to the other side of town, and walked twenty minutes to a rundown car lot. There was no one there yet. She tugged her light jacket more closely around her, wishing she'd brought a heavier one; it was high fall, and the morning was chilly. She used the time to inspect the cars and find the one that looked least likely to break down. When the owner showed up, she followed him into the little shack. “Fifty percent more, in cash, for the little black Pontiac, no questions asked.”

The owner gave her a long look. For once, the stare didn't linger on her breasts. “Done.”

Twenty minutes later, she was heading into the mountains.

She lost an hour when she missed the correct road and had to double back. By mid-afternoon, she knew she was in roughly the right area. She slowed to a crawl. It took her two more hours to find the turnoff that she had only seen once, after dark, in a torrential downpour. When she got far enough down the narrow road-- path-- to see the missing chunks of cliff, she knew her memory hadn't failed her. She parked there, behind heavy brush, and walked the rest of the way. She wasn't Barton. There was no need to put herself through _driving_ that hair-raising section of the trail. 

She made it to the rock outcropping, but there was no car parked behind it. That made her uneasy, but she hiked through the woods, up and up, and came out in front of the rock wall. She stared up at it. _I may have underestimated its height_. Could Barton really have climbed that with a stab wound? 

Only one way to find out. She startle to scramble up. Lacking climbing gear, she fell twice, and made it to the top with blood on her face and hands. None of the cabin's windows faced the field, but as she crossed it, she didn't see smoke coming from the chimney.

She stopped at the door and listened. No sound from inside. She had a brief internal struggle about knocking vs. sneaking in... no, she didn't want to bet her life against Barton's reflexes. Especially not if he was out of his mind. She knocked. “Barton?”

No answer.

“Barton. It's Romanova. Natalia.”

Still, nothing.

The lock was simple; the place was meant to be unreachable. She picked it, and opened the door, bracing herself to find Barton dead or unconscious.

The cabin was empty.

The curtain to the back alcove was open, and she could see that the bed was unoccupied. Just in case, she checked the floor, then the tiny floor in the bathroom. She even pried open the trapdoor in the kitchen floor and stared down the ladder, but there were no gruesome, broken bodies at the bottom. She went outside and circled the cabin, looking for any sign that someone was nearby. Nothing. She went back inside and slumped against the front door. 

“You're kidding me.” The words echoed hollowly in the empty cabin. After coming all that way-- losing valuable time she could have been searching elsewhere-- Coulson was going to kill her, if S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't shoot her on sight. She must be an idiot, to think Barton would have kept this place when he knew she knew about it. 

Well-- she could make it back to the car before full dark, and--

Something wasn't right.

She studied around the cabin, trying to put her finger on it. She didn't get the sense that she was in immediate danger, it wasn't that--

The back wall. There was an empty spot on the back wall. One of the harnesses was gone.

“You're _kidding_ me,” she said blankly. “Barton, what the _hell_.” 

She stared out the window at the cliff face. Of course he would have gone up as high as he could. The rock was dotted with dark holes that might be large enough to shelter a man. Did he not want to come back down? Or _could_ he not come back down?

“You were fucking _stabbed_ , Barton,” she muttered. Not that she hadn't done equally stupid things herself. She ransacked his place for supplies. There was a backpack in one of his drawers. She lined the bottom with food, then added the first aid kit, a couple of blankets, several large bottles of water, waterproof matches, and a Sterno can. She took one of his jackets; it was big on her, but she'd need the warmth. She also took a headlamp, a pair of fingerless gloves, and the other set of climbing gear, including the longest rope she could find. Barton's preparedness was a godsend... but the fact that he hadn't thought to take any of this stuff up with him was worrying.

She locked the door behind her and was about to pull it closed when she felt the rain on her head. “You're--” She broke off and closed her eyes. Then she opened them again, went back inside, and searched until she found a rain coat.

“Barton,” she sighed, staring up at the cliff, “what the hell.” She put on the harness and began to climb. 

She knew she was on the right track when she found the first anchor. Evidently, she'd remembered well enough how Barton had set up the harnesses before, because when her fingers couldn't get purchase on the slick rock and she fell, she only dropped a few feet. Her shoulder smashed into the rock. “Shit!” 

It was still better than being at the bottom with a broken spine. She rubbed her aching shoulder, and started to climb again.

It started to rain harder. She pulled herself wearily over the edge of the first hole in the rock... and her headlamp showed her an empty cage. _FUCKING hell, Barton_. She took five, wiping the water and blood from her face, and gulping down a meal bar and half a bottle of water. Then she stretched, loosening up her fingers and arms, and began to climb again.

The next cave up was also empty. She kept climbing. Her left hand slipped off the rock. When she recovered, barely, the jolt of adrenaline was so strong it made her shake. She breathed through it. _I have a harness. I'm safe_. But her harness was dubious, and after so long without sleep, her panic threshold was lower. She gritted her teeth, swung up to the next handhold, and thought about how what she was doing was insane. And yet-- it went something like this:

She had no idea why Barton had spared her in Klaipeda. She’d been watching him for months, and she could not come up with one single, plausible selfish motive to ascribe to him. It wasn't sex: she'd never caught him looking at her like that, not once, not even the times he hadn't known she was watching, even though he'd been looking closely enough to accurately determine her _dress size_. That was what most people wanted from her-- that, or for her to kill someone for them. But Barton was a highly skilled sniper in his own right, so it wasn't that, either.

If it had been anyone else in Amsterdam, or if she’d had a single reason to think he was trying to exploit her, she wouldn’t have trusted him to have her back. As the hallucinations got worse, she probably would have killed him and then gone completely crazy in short order. He’d seen her at her most vulnerable, and not only had he not used the opportunity to hurt her, he didn’t look at her any differently now. He didn’t look at her like he thought she was weak. She had no frame of reference for him.

The line between that and clinging to the side of a mountain in North Carolina, she would leave for more explicit elucidation at a later date, but she didn’t have to think through all the steps to know that this was where she needed to be.

She reached up and grabbed the next handhold.

The next cave was empty, too. She stopped to rest again. It was now pitch-black, the clouds covering the moon and the stars. Despite the gloves protecting her palms, her hands were a mess. Her arms and legs burned. S.H.I.E.L.D. had to have something that could search these caves more effectively than she could. She checked her phone: no signal. Of course not. It was a cheap burner, not a S.H.I.E.L.D. phone, and she was in a remote part of the mountains, surrounded by stone walls. _If_ she climbed back down, and walked and drove out until she got a signal, and _if_ Barton was really here, and _if_ S.H.I.E.L.D. came... would he spook, and run even farther?

The rain was still coming down steadily. She started to climb again, and thanked the higher powers she didn't believe in for Barton's discrimination in buying gloves: as thick and sturdy as they were, they were the only things keeping her hands from freezing into uselessness. She kept climbing. When she looked down, the shack was nearly invisible at the bottom of the cliff.

_He was STABBED. There's no way he could have made it up thi--_

She reached the next cave, and found an arrow pointed between her eyes.

Relief and fear gave her a double adrenaline rush. “It's me! Romanova. Natalia. Do you know who I am?” If he fired at this range, she'd be dead. 

She squinted beyond the arrow to Barton, who was crouched in the cave. He looked blank. “ _Romanova_. What the hell?” 

“Funny, I've been thinking the same thing about you.”

“How did you get up here?”

_Really_? “How do you think? I _climbed_.”

“It's raining.”

“ _I noticed_.”

He stared at her, not entirely welcoming.

“If you're going to shoot me, shoot me. Otherwise, let me up.” She shifted, trying to get a better grip.

“Did S.H.I.E.L.D send you?”

“No. And they don't know where I am.”

“Were you followed?”

“ _No_.” She adjusted her grip again. “I'm hanging by my fingers here, Barton. Literally.”

He put the bow down. “Hand me your bag. I've got you.” He gripped her right arm firmly. With him closer, she could see that he didn't look well. He squinted at her headlamp, and shut it off as she swung the strap over her left shoulder. He grabbed her left arm with his other hand, and helped her get the bag over her other shoulder. For a moment, she thought he was going to let go once he had her supplies, but he shoved the bag backwards and helped her scramble into the cave. “What the hell are you doing here?”

She raised her eyebrows at him as she fumbled with the rope and the harness. “Really?”

“How'd you find me, then?”

“Educated guess. You're hurt and sick; you'd go someplace where you feel safe. Once Coulson said Tennessee, it wasn't hard to figure out.” 

“Coulson?” Barton's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“He asked if I knew where you might have gone. I said no.” She finished a bottle of water, and looked around. The cave was wider than its opening, and twisted back into darkness. In the back was a tiny fire, reflecting off the walls in a spot where it wouldn't easily be seen from outside. The smoke rose steadily back into the cave; there must be an outlet back there somewhere. Next to the fire was a sleeping bag, a duffel bag, and a small hand lantern. Stacked against one wall were gallons of water and two crates of food.

She turned back to study Barton. Even by the dim light of the fire, his face was flushed, and the hollows in his cheeks were more pronounced. He was clean-shaven, but there were tiny cuts all along his chin and jaw. He was wearing a jacket open over a T-shirt; at the shoulder, she could see the edges of bandages. “How are you?”

His hesitation was answer enough. “I've got antibiotics.”

“Doesn't look like they're working.”

He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “I been worse. Just need to ride it out. Which I _don't_ need you here for.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “When I climb down, you're coming with me.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He stared at her. She stared back. He looked away first. “Who died and made you god?” he muttered.

She shrugged. “I am an assassin.”

He blinked, and then let out a hoarse bark of laughter. “Fine. Suit yourself. But I ain't entertainin' you.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “I'm used to making my own fun,” she said innocently.

He eyed her, and apparently decided not to touch that one. “Still haven't said why you're here.”

She headed for the fire, since he apparently wasn't going to. She was cold and wet, and it wasn't doing him any good to have the rain blowing in on him. “I know a bit about running.” She sat down; he sat across the fire from her. “So why did you?”

“Came back to my senses outside Oak Ridge,” he said, hoarsely, after a minute. “Saw the swordsman. Or thought I did.”

“Swordsman? Which swordsman?”

He looked at her like she was dense. “ _The_ Swordsman. Jacques Duquesne. Man who taught me how to use a sword. Circus.”

She watched him for a minute. “I'm guessing that didn't end well?”

His hand flexed over his left shin-- unconsciously, she thought. “No.”

“Did he see you?”

“Don't know.”

“What does he, uh, do?”

“Do? He's a circus performer. And a small-time crook.”

She didn't like what this was adding up to. She didn't know how long he'd been with the circus, but she'd gotten the impression that he'd left it fairly young-- he was only a few years older than she was, he'd been with S.H.I.E.L.D. long enough to become a trusted and valued agent, and she knew he'd had at least one career in between the circus and S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint Barton, secret agent, had nothing to fear from the man he was describing, but Clint Barton, young circus performer, might have. That he'd forgotten he was the former, and fled as if he were the latter, was a bad indication of his mental state.

“He might've just been another hallucination,” Barton added.

She looked him up and down again. “Have you been sleeping?”

He glanced towards the mouth of the cave. “Some.”

Because sleep deprivation and damp caves were such great ingredients in any successful recovery. 

“I'll keep an eye out. Get some rest.” It had been forty-four hours since she'd slept, barring catnaps in the cab of an eighteen-wheeler, but he needed it more than she did. If he'd been spooked so badly he'd fled all the way here, he probably hadn't been eager to close his eyes.

He surprised, and alarmed, her by not arguing. He wriggled into the sleeping bag. “Coal for the fire's in that bag.”

“Okay.” 

And then he was quiet. His labored breathing, the hiss of the fire, and the white noise of the rain echoed softly in the cave. His lungs sounded bad, but not imminently fatal. She rifled quietly through his bag, looking for the antibiotics. Below the shaving kit-- _really?_ \-- she found a half-full bottle of cipro, and an unopened z-pack, stamped with the label of a military pharmacy in Tennessee. If he'd been hallucinating when he'd broken out, how long had he gone before starting to take them?

She sat against the wall and stretched her legs out in front of her. The rain was tapering off, and the stars were coming out. It was a beautiful view, but it didn't inspire her to any answers. If Barton didn't make a miracle recovery immediately, she needed to get him down from this cave. She didn't know how to do that. If she absolutely had to, she could probably knock him out and drag him down like so much cargo, but that was strictly a last-ditch option. It could easily make him worse, and could easily make _her_ dead if he violently objected while she was climbing down.

She went around and around in her head until she decided she could draw no conclusions without new data-- and that she was spending her energy fruitlessly like this to avoid looking at the elephant in her mind, which was what the hell she was doing there.

She still didn't know. But having seen Barton, she couldn't regret it. And she wasn't leaving him now. 

Barton's breathing worsened. He muttered unintelligibly in his sleep, and sat up. It didn't seem like he was seeing her, or anything in front of him. He turned over and went back to sleep, breathing a little easier. But after about half an hour he started making noise again. “Barney,” he muttered, pawing at the sleeping bag ineffectually. “Barney. Buck!” He twitched, and rolled violently in the sleeping bag. “No. No!”

She lunged forward, but he rolled in the opposite direction, away from the fire. The fear and helplessness in his voice was chilling. In Amsterdam, she'd thought that Barton was too practical to believe in nightmares that came out of the shadows-- had depended on it. But everyone had their own nightmares. She'd been foolish to assume he was different. “Hey.” She shook him firmly by the shoulder, at arms' length in case he had a knife she didn't know about. He probably did. “Wake up. You're dreaming.”

He opened his eyes with a ragged gasp. He lay there panting, staring straight up. “Thanks,” he rasped.

“Yeah.” She looked him over. He was absolutely soaked with sweat. “How do you feel?”

“... been... better.” He wiped the moisture from his forehead.

“Can I see your shoulder?” If it was infected, she needed to take that into her estimates of how badly he needed medical attention.

“It's okay. Not infected.” He crawled halfway out of the sleeping bag, propping himself up on one elbow to cough, a wet, painful sound that worried her. He shrugged off his jacket, pulled off his T-shirt, and then stripped off his sodden undershirt. He pulled off part of the tape and lifted away the bandage. It was leaking blood, but not much, considering its length and depth. Some of the stitches at the far end had torn, and that part was bleeding more freely.

“How much do you remember about what happened in Tennessee?”

He grimaced at the state of his undershirt and wadded it up against the cave's wall. As a delaying tactic, it wasn't subtle. “I remember punching the nurse.”

“She's fine.” 

He looked a little relieved at that. “Not a whole hell of a lot else.”

“That half-open wound's not doing you any good.”

“I'll live.”

_That's debatable_. “If your first aid kit is as well-stocked as I think, I can fix it for you.”

At her last words, his gaze snapped up to her face. He didn't make any effort to disguise his scrutiny, his wariness. She let him stare. She didn't offer him any words of encouragement. Either he trusted her or he didn't... and considering that she was still mulling over rendering him unconscious, she couldn't honestly promise not to hurt him.

“You know what you're doing?”

She stared at him in blank disbelief.

He hesitated some more, then nodded once. “There's needle and thread in the kit.”

She got the kit. Barton gingerly sponged down the stab wound as she washed her hands with the jug of water and a little soap. She let her hands air dry and put on the gloves from the kit. Barton had struggled all the way out of the sleeping bag, and was slumped back against the cold rock. He handed her a lighter.

She looked him over. “Do you need something to hold on to?”

In a less weakened state, his look might have been a glare. “Just do it.”

She sterilized the needle with rubbing alcohol and then flamed it until it was dry. She threaded it, and then glanced up at Barton again. His mouth was set in a thin line, and he was staring steadily at the other wall of the cave. 

He tensed at the first prick of the needle, but kept his chest and shoulder relaxed. His breathing became shallow, short pants that minimized the movement of his wound. She put five stitches in, then tied them off. “Done.”

After a moment, he slowly exhaled. His eyes were squeezed shut. She put the bottle of painkillers from the kit into his left hand, and started to put a fresh bandage on the site. He opened his eyes and looked at the bottle. “Damn it.”

“What?”

“Was hopin' for whiskey.”

“Rubbing alcohol?” she offered.

He looked at her. “... that's poisonous.”

She smiled, finished the bandaging, and put away the kit.

When she was done, he looked a bit more like himself. Moving carefully, he put his T-shirt back on. “You should get some rest.”

“I'm fine.”

He looked up at her and raised an eyebrow. “You haven't slept in at least twenty-four hours.”

She smirked at that, how his eye for detail never missed even when he was burning with fever. “Forty-four,” she admitted. She took out another meal bar. “What's your plan?”

He hesitated. “Don't have one.” He coughed, deeply, and curled in on himself, wincing, as the movement pulled at his stab wound. He fumbled for the bottle of antibiotics.

“Are those helping?”

“... maybe.”

She washed the meal bar down with more water. The bottle was almost empty. Apropos of which, there was something she needed to know, and since she didn't see anything or _smell_ anything, she was afraid the answer was “out the front of the cave.” “I'm guessing your bathroom has the world's best view?” she asked with resignation.

The corner of his mouth curled up. He jerked a thumb towards the back of the cave. “Bucket.”

She took the headlamp and followed the trail of smoke. The bucket was a few meters down the passage, and the second bucket of sawdust beside it explained why she hadn't smelled anything. When she returned to the main part of the cave, Barton was huddled in the sleeping bag by the fire, nearly in the flames. He was shaking.

“Here.” She handed him the blankets she'd brought from the shack. Then she dug in his bag until she found a mug, filled it with water, and set it in the fire. “Do you have coffee or something?”

He shook his head. His teeth were chattering.

“You need to get down from here.”

“Mmm.” He didn't respond. She didn't press the point, not yet. If she was going to get his agreement, she needed to do it when he was lucid and paying attention.

She made him drink the water when it was heated. That helped, and he came out of the sleeping bag enough to wrap the blankets more fully around him. But the shivers soon returned. She checked the coal bag: there was enough, for now, but if she started building up the fire, it wasn't going to last. “The sunrise's gorgeous.”

He lifted his head. “Yeah.” He coughed, long and deep and painfully.

“Let me listen to your lungs?”

“Since when are you a doctor?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Would you like a list of all the conditions I've treated in the field?”

He grumbled, but wriggled out of the sleeping bag again. As soon as he undid the blankets, he started to shiver, and by the time she put her ear against his chest he was shaking violently.

His lungs sounded bad. He was probably going to get pneumonia. She thought about climbing down and finding Barton's two-way radio. He'd never forgive her-- since when did she care about that?-- but it was better than him being dead. But if S.H.I.E.L.D. did come, and he reacted badly? How far back did this cave go, anyway? He knew its twists and turns better than anyone S.H.I.E.L.D. could send after him.

She could take him down herself, if she had to. She was better at hand-to-hand than he was. But if he was too delirious to know who she was, she might not be able to keep from getting badly hurt without badly hurting _him_.

His shaking started to subside. He looked worn and grey. “Get some rest, Romanova.” He unzipped the sleeping bag and tossed the blankets in her direction. They stank of sweat. “I'm not going anywhere.”

She wanted to argue, and talk him into climbing down. But her exhaustion hit her all at once. In her current state, she'd be useless to help him down. “'k,” she muttered, took the blankets, retreated to a darker part of the cave, and was out like a light.

*

She woke ravenous, cold, and cramped. Barton was tossing by the fire again, but he didn't sound delirious. She opened an MRE, and ate the whole thing. After making sure he was really asleep, she checked her phone again. No signal. What if she climbed to the top of the cliff? How far up did it go? In the dark, she hadn't gotten a good look.

Barton's agitation grew. He started muttering, and soon formed recognizable words. “Barney. Mom. _Mom._ _MOM! NO!_ ” His whole body seized up, and his left arm came up in front of him-- just like he'd reacted back in the ambulance, in Minnesota.

She grabbed his shoulder and shook hard, other hand ready to pin his if he came up fighting. He gasped, eyes flying open. He froze. His expression was… a less dysfunctional person might have called it heartbreaking, a mix of horror and mortification.

She’d wanted to know about him. She’d wanted to know what fire had tempered him to make him so solid and immoveable. But now, she was watching something so raw it made her uncomfortable. She'd _never_ experienced that before. Studying people, cataloging all the available data to map them, was her job. She’d never flinched. This new thing felt uncomfortably like… _compassion_.

Barton looked miserable. He covered his eyes with his arm. “Hey,” she said. “I’ve been practicing.”

He moved his arm, looking confused. She took three small rocks from the floor of the cave and started juggling them. He snorted, and managed a weak smile. “Not bad.” He covered his eyes again.

She thought he was sleeping, but a few minutes later, he looked at her. “Why are you here?” he asked tiredly, defeatedly.

She leaned back against the rock and stretched her legs. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

He gave her a frustrated, wry, look, but he got her point. She didn’t know why she’d come any more than he knew why he’d held his fire in Klaipeda, but the one had directly led to the other. “You didn’t tell me what you wanted from me,” she said. “I had to guess. Show some initiative. Would you have preferred a pony?”

He stared at her, and then broke into a hoarse, rasping laugh. That turned into a cough that went on and on, and made _her_ wince with its violence. When the fit passed, she went to relieve herself again. She took the headlamp and used the opportunity to explore the farther reaches of the cave. If Barton questioned her extended absence, she'd tell him she was constipated. She _was_ eating MREs.

She looked for any sign of a passage to the top, where she might be able to get a signal, but the tunnel dipped down. Reluctantly, she turned back; she couldn't risk getting lost. When she got back to Barton, he was lying on top of the sleeping bag, stripped to his trousers, and sweat was pouring off of him. He looked worse than he had six hours ago. 

“Drink some water.” She fumbled for a water bottle, put an arm under his shoulders, and helped him sit up. He slumped back against the wall of the cave, and her arm, before she could move. She brought the bottle to his mouth. He drank greedily, then choked and starting coughing. The coughs racked his body violently. Finally he breathed more easily, but his face looked grey.

“It's so hot.” He moved towards the mouth of the cave. He stumbled, but didn't fall.

She eyed the way his balance was off, and his proximity to a hundred foot drop. He leaned against the mouth of the cave and looked out over the mountains, one leg tucked up and one leg... swinging free in space. She went to join him. She _wasn't_ afraid of heights. Still, there was a reason he was a sniper and she wasn't. “Nice view out your front door.”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “Yeah.”

“You come here often?”

His side glance was a little wary. “No.” After a moment, he added, “I don't get away often.”

She watched the arc of his foot through space, fascinated by the way he was completely unconcerned with the drop. She didn't think it was because he was feverish, either.

“How'd you get away from S.H.I.E.L.D?”

“Dyed my hair. Hitchhiked. Bought a car.”

“You think they followed you?”

She just looked at him. “Think back to my case file,” she said mildly, “and ask that again.”

“Mmm.” He looked satisfied. “I need more drugs.” He reached back and felt for his bag.

Soon, he started to shiver again, and crawled back into the sleeping bag. She tossed him the blankets, and then his jacket. They didn't stop his shaking from progressing to full-blown tremors. She dumped the rest of the coal on the fire and let it flare up. This shaking fit took longer to pass than any of the others. Between the cough and the tremors, he couldn't catch his breath, and his attempts were one long wheeze after another.

The mug of water she'd set in the fire came to a decent temperature; she handed it to him. He cradled it for the warmth, but choked when he tried to drink. “God,” he gasped. He hugged the mug to his chest again.

_Fuck this_. She needed to get down, or up, and call for help, whether with Barton's approval or his active opposition. But if she left, even for a little bit, what might happen to him?

She squatted next to him. “Hey. We have to get you down from here.”

He gasped. “Yeah?”

“If you can't get your body temperature up, I'm going to have to strip down and crawl in with you, and the thought doesn't thrill me.”

That got a smile out of him. “Feeling's mutual.”

“Then let's go.”

The smile faded. “I'm... not... sure I can.” He swallowed hard. “Would've gone already, if I could.”

She leaned forward. “Barton. Clint. I will get you down there in one piece. I swear. You just have to work with me.”

He hesitated.

“At least to the shack. It's warmer, there's better food. You can sweat it out.”

He looked around. “This would be a pretty bad place to die,” he admitted.

“Aren't they all?” She looked around. Now she just needed a _way_... “How'd you get up here in the first place?”

“What'd'ya mean?”

She gestured at his shoulder. “You got stabbed.”

“Oh, that.” He shrugged. “Still have two good legs and one good arm.”

_Incredible._

She started grabbing things and throwing them in the bag. “Stay there. Warm up. Five minutes.” They didn't need to take the stuff with them, but she needed the time to figure out how the hell they were going to get down. “Can you climb at all? Short stages?”

He looked down. “Yeah, probably.”

She tossed the bags out of the mouth of the cave; they landed one hundred feet below. That probably meant _no_. And he should save his strength for if they really needed it. She found the longest piece of rope, from what she'd brought and what he'd brought, and paid it out arm-length by arm-length, estimating its length. Then she looked over the edge, gauging the distance to the nearest ledge. “I'm going to lower you down to the next ledge. It's fifteen feet.”

He grimaced, but didn't argue. Good: she didn't have the time, or the energy, to convince him to put his life ahead of his pride. “Gimme the rope.” He tied it around a sturdy outcropping a couple of feet back from the cave mouth. He clipped the other end into his harness, and handed the rope to her. Then he shouldered his quiver, and looped his bow over his shoulder.

It looked like it could easily get in the way. “I can carry--”

“No.”

She didn't argue. He was the one who did this on a regular basis. She took firm hold of the rope, and nodded when he caught her eye. Then he turned to face the cave and slid, feet-first, out of the mouth.

She let the rope play out slowly. He'd tied it far enough from the end so that, if she dropped it, he wouldn't fall thirty feet, but she still didn't want him smashing into the cliff. He reached the ledge; the tension on the rope eased as he got his feet under him. He gave her a thumbs-up, then slumped against the rock face. She untied the rope, and let it slither over the edge of the cave. She didn't know how to use it to rappel down herself. She fastened another piece of rope through her own harness, and climbed down gingerly until she could clip in.

Her cramped fingers gave out when she was five feet above the ledge, and she slid the rest of the way, heart racing for one sickening minute until she landed with a solid _thump_. Barton grabbed her, and steadied her. “You all right?” he rasped.

“Never better.” She massaged some feeling back into her numb, stinging hands, and flexed her arms. Time to keep moving, even if what she really wanted was to curl up motionless for twenty-four hours. With a bottle of Scotch.

It was just a short distance to the nearest cave. When they reached it, they'd be a quarter of the way down. He tied the rope to a sturdy tree trunk growing out of the cliff, and she lowered him down again. When she got down after him, he was slumped against the wall, still panting hard. So she leaned back against the rock, grateful for the chance to rest, and waited until he looked slightly less terrible. The sun pouring over the mountains was gorgeous. She could see why he'd chosen to make his home up here, as remote and isolated as it was. 

Finally Barton looked up, eyebrows raised.

“Ten feet,” she said.

He looked over the edge, nodded, and tied the rope to the nearest anchor.

They made it to the next ledge. She was parched. She should have kept the other water bottle, because she didn't want Barton's germs. Too late now; she'd been through worse. He was massaging his shoulder. “Painkillers?” he asked.

She winced. _Stupid, Romanova._ “They're in the bag. Sorry.” Along with the gloves she'd thoughtlessly tossed in. Climbing down sixty-five feet of cliff, and then back up, would put her at about the edge of her strength.

“'s fine.”

She looked at his face. He looked like he was at about the edge of his strength, already, and he hadn't done anything more strenuous than steady his descent. She looked over the edge. “Why the hell did you come up a hundred foot cliff with thirty feet of rope?”

He shivered. “Think we established I wasn't thinking straight. Question is, why did _you_?”

“Because it was all I could find!”

He coughed. “So inconsiderate of me not to label my drawers for burglars.”

“Exactly.” After the next ledge, it was all the way down. She'd worry about that when they got there. What she had to worry about _now_ was that there was nowhere to tie the rope to. Barton could clip in, but there was nothing to backstop her in case her fingers slipped. But she could...

She threaded the rope through the nearest anchor and handed both ends to him. “Tie in, then knot these.”

His eyebrows went up, but he did as she said. She didn't tie in, because the rope was a loop; instead, she carefully free-climbed down, trying not to think about the fifty-foot drop beneath her. She made it to the next ledge. “Throw the rope down!” He tossed the loop down; she caught it, and held it. “Climb down.”

She slowly let the rope loop through the anchor. He held the rope with his good arm, and used his legs to keep his balance against the rock. Halfway down, he started shivering again. He found an unsteady foothold and leaned against the rock, shaking violently. He coughed, and his foot dislodged a shower of pebbles that bounced into her eyes. She flinched, lost her balance, and slid off the ledge before she caught herself on the rope. 

“Romanova!”

“I'm fine!” She winced at her bloodied hand. Now she had a matching set. Blood on her hands, that was appropriate.

He doubled over, coughing, and lost his grip on the rope for a minute. He slid a few feet before he caught himself again. She swore softly. They were barely halfway there... and there was no anchor on this ledge, either. This wasn't going to work. Barton was running on reserves, and he was probably even worse than he was letting her see.

He made it down, and slumped alarmingly against the rock, head resting on his knees. No wonder he'd lost his grip-- even his hands were sweaty. 

She looked over the edge. “Rest here. I'm going to...” _Figure something out_.

The corner of his mouth turned up. “Don't be gone too long. I might get a better offer.”

She snorted, and climbed over the edge. She ignored the warning trembling in her arms. _You've done much worse than this_. She looked for anything that could help them, but there were no ledges that had been camouflaged from above, and no miraculous anchor points. Barton was good, but even he couldn't climb fifty feet with a stab wound.

She hauled herself back up, trying to hide her exhaustion. It wasn't difficult: Barton was curled up on his side on the narrow ledge, coughing so hard she was afraid he was going to bust a rib. Eventually, his coughing subsided. “Hey, Barton?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you _have_ whiskey down there?”

He looked like he might be smiling. “Yep.”

“... do you have _Scotch_?”

Now he was definitely smiling. “Mm-hmm.”

She felt her second-- no, more like fifth-- wind coming on. Good; she was going to need it. “Can you shoot steady?”

He looked at her.

“Right.” She unknotted the rope and pulled it free from above. Then she tied it to the anchor, in a way she didn't think the equipment was really designed for, and let the end fall towards the ground. It came up twenty feet short. She tossed Barton a shorter piece of rope, not enough to make up the difference to the ground. “Strap in.”

She didn't hear him move. “That's thirty feet, and I'm heavier than you are.”

_Congratulations on your keen grasp of the obvious_. “Just do it, Barton.”

“You sure you can manage that?”

She turned to look over her shoulder. “You want a detailed account of the things the Red Room did to teach me to haul heavy loads?”

For a moment, he didn't move; then he staggered to his feet, and threaded the rope through both their harnesses. He wrapped his arms around her waist. “Range of motion okay?”

“Fine.” She climbed carefully over the edge.

He took a lot of his own weight on his legs, so she wasn't hauling a one hundred and seventy pound load by herself, but the climb was still torture on her arms and bloodied hands. If she slipped, they both went down. But she trusted her strength to cling to the rope better than she trusted his ability to cling to her. His weight tugged on her harness, making it hard to breathe. Just as well; after days of sweating, he smelled terrible. She didn't think she smelled much better.

She lost her footing. They started to fall. She grabbed a handhold with the rawest part of her palm, hissed in pain, and jammed a foot in a crevice in the rock; her ankle twinged uncomfortably. Barton reached up and grabbed the rope above their heads. They stopped falling. “Thanks,” she panted.

“Yeah.” She felt him turn, and look down. “Twenty-five feet. I could climb down from here--”

“Just hang on.” She felt around for the most secure place to stand, and decided to risk a few more feet. They could probably make twenty feet if they climbed down to the very end of the rope, but then they'd have no margin of error. “Can you shoot from here?”

“Yeah.” He unshouldered his bow, and nocked an arrow. She grabbed the nearest anchor, because the rope wasn't going to be taut for much longer. She put her other arm around his waist, stabilizing him while he made the shot. He breathed, and shot, and the rope dropped on her head.

Her hands were full; she had to either let go of Barton, or give him the rope. He put his bow over his shoulder again, took the rope, reached up, and tied it to the anchor. He grunted in pain as the stretch strained his right side. “We're good.”

She glanced down to make sure the rope reached the ground. Thank God, yes. Twenty-five feet. She could ignore the fire in her arms, her hands, and her fingers for twenty-five more feet. There was water at the bottom. There was _ground_ at the bottom. She fumbled for the next foothold, and released the rope with her right hand. One hand below the other, she could get down.

With ten feet to go, Barton turned his head and take a deep breath. The force of his violent cough threw her off balance. They went flying through the air. She caught the rope with one hand; it slid through her palm like fire, and she couldn't keep from crying out in pain. Then the hand holding the rope slammed into a rock, and they fell the rest of the distance.

She tried to twist so she was on the bottom. Barton did the same. They slammed into the ground on their left sides. “Are you okay,” she tried to say, but the breath had been knocked out of her. She tried to figure out what exactly it was that hurt; her mind was moving too slowly. All she knew was a haze of pain. “Barton,” she tried to slur.

She felt him fumble with the harnesses. “Romanova.” His own voice was shaky. “'Talia. Natalia.”

“Yeah,” she got out after a moment. She felt him unfasten her harness. “You... okay?”

“Never better.” He rolled away from her, and stood up. “You?”

She breathed in, then out, and managed to localize the pain to her hands, her leg, and her left side. She could breathe without stabbing pains, so miraculously, her ribs were intact. “Delightful.” She sat up. The world didn't spin too badly. “Should have let you climb down.” 

“You said in one piece, we're here in one piece.” He put an arm across her back and helped her up, then nocked an arrow. It sliced neatly through the rope just below the anchor; both arrow and rope fell to the base of the cliff. 

She limped behind him to the cabin, and let him unlock the door. They were down from the cave, Barton wasn't dead of pneumonia, and she hadn't fallen to her death. Things were looking up.

She closed the door. He was checking on the solar panels. He staggered, and slumped towards the ground. She caught him. “You should be in bed.”

“Wait,” he said raggedly. He shook off her arms and stumbled to a low cabinet. Glass clinked as he rooted around in it, and then he handed her--

– a bottle of Scotch.

She couldn't help grinning. He smiled back, glassy-eyed. When she gently propelled him towards his bed, he didn't protest. She rummaged through his drawers, threw him a clean set of clothes, then emptied the closet of blankets and stacked them on his bed, unfolding them one at a time and throwing them over him. He'd curled in on himself to an extent that was worrying. He looked small. He looked vulnerable. 

He came back to awareness after a minute. “I got this.” He grabbed another blanket and pulled it over himself.

She started a fire, set a kettle in the fireplace, and dug the antibiotics out of the bag. There was enough juice in the battery to run the pump, so she filled two mugs with water and carried one of them into him with the pills. He sat up long enough to swallow, then collapsed back into the sheets. “Thanks.”

There was nothing more she could do for him until the water boiled. She sat down with the first aid kit and tended to her shredded hands, which were sticky with blood and lymph. She picked dirt, bits of rock, and rope fibers out of the raw flesh, then applied antiseptic. “ _Shit!_ ”

“Romanova?”

“Where the hell did you get this antiseptic? It feels like ants are trying to eat my hands.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. surplus. It's experimental.”

_That_ was reassuring. She cracked open the bottle of Scotch to ease the burn in her hands. It burned down her throat instead, and her muscles loosened pleasantly.

She bandaged her hands, and searched the cupboards, her stomach growling. She threw a couple of dehydrated meals in a pot, made tea, and split the meals two ways. She carried the food in to Barton, and started to go back to the living room, but the tiny patch of the floor in front of the wall was suddenly very inviting. They ate in silence. She put the plate down, and toppled gently sideways onto the floor.

“Help yourself to clothes if you want them.” Barton sounded half-asleep himself.

“Mmm.”

There was a soft _whump_ by her head. She opened her eyes a crack to see two of the spare blankets lying there. She halfheartedly shook one out and draped it over herself.

“Romanova.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

“I'd probably be dead soon if you hadn't shown up.”

_You're not out of the woods yet_. “Get some rest.”

She dozed, waking up every few minutes, and kept an eye on Barton. The warmth and the antibiotics seemed to be helping; his breathing was congested, but deep, and he wasn't shaking. Maybe in an hour or so she would put some water on to heat to get the worst of the grime...

She woke, completely disoriented, from a deep sleep. She was in Barton's cabin, curled up by the wall of the tiny bedroom; late afternoon light was streaming in the window, and Barton was no longer in bed. The dirty plate was gone from near her head, and in its place was a bowl, holding a cold heap of macaroni and cheese.

Struggling out of the blankets that she'd wound around herself in her sleep, she lurched on protesting legs into the other room. Barton was in front of the fire, covered in the sleeping bag and every other blanket in the cabin. The pile of bedding was shaking.

“Hey.” She shuffled her feet as she approached, because startling a feverish sniper was a terrible idea. He barely raised his head. He’d looked bad before, but now he was glistening with sweat, and his face was absent of color, except for two streaks of fevered red along his cheekbones. His eyes were sunken and half-open.

She reached for the bag of coal.

“I just added more.” His raspy words were hard to understand. 

“Antibiotics?”

“Those too.”

So she put the kettle in the fire, and sat cross-legged against the wall to watch him, trying not to let him see how concerned she was. “Stab wound still okay?”

“Yeah.”

He fought for breath. The kettle whistled. She made tea and tried to get Barton to drink it. He needed her help to sit up, and had to stop to breathe between each swallow. The warmth didn't stop the tremors. She forced tea on him until he stumbled out of his nest of blankets to the toilet, and then she had to admit it wasn't helping.

He staggered back to the fire. “I could walk down and call--” she began.

“No.” He collapsed on the floor. “You're thinking of doing that, you get out now.” He pulled the blankets back over himself, and continued to shiver. The lucidity quickly passed. He started calling out in his fevered dreams: “Barney,” he muttered. “ _Barney!_ ”

“Hey.” She knelt on the floor, shaking him awake. 

He blinked up at her, teeth chattering. “Barney?”

“No. Natalia Romanova.”

He looked disappointed. After a minute, he seemed to recognize her.

She sighed. She still, _still_ , didn't understand why she was there, but she'd come too far, and fought too hard, to lose him now. And so had he. “Move over.” She pulled her shirt over her head.

He stared-- at her face. “Thought you didn't... want.”

“I want you to die even less.”

He scooted closer to the fire. She stepped out of her pants and got under the covers, trying very hard not to think about what she was doing. _The feeling's mutual_ , he'd said, so she didn't move any closer to him until he wriggled out of his shirt, then arched his hips and shoved his pants down past his ankles. She pressed her chest against his back, and tucked her knees into the back of his. _This is an acceptable price to save a life_ , she told herself, and waited for the tension to come, the sickening uneasiness.

She was still waiting when he gasped, and pressed himself back against her. “So warm.” His voice was low and broken. That wasn't good. He felt like a furnace himself, but he still couldn't get warm.

His shivering started to abate. She wrapped her arm around his waist, drawing them closer together. He smelled awful. She didn't care. As long as he didn't drop dead out here, he could go roll around in a landfill for all she was concerned.

His breath still rasped horribly, but his shivers continued to ease. The heat, the growing darkness outside, and the quiet lulled her to sleep; the popping of the fire, and Barton's slow, labored breaths, made a drowsy rhythm. She rested her forehead against the back of his neck. This was the closest she, Natalia Romanova, had ever been to another human being. Assuming someone else's identity for seduction-- that wasn't her. It didn't count. She, herself, had never had this kind of intimacy before. And Barton had never asked it of her. If he had, she wouldn't be here.

He was so hot. She was starting to sweat, herself, everywhere they were pressed together. Their position jarred something in her mind-- and she remembered slumping against a back wall on a freezing night, cradling another girl in her arms as she died from gaping wounds, the girl's hot blood pouring out over Natalia's arms and numb fingers. Neither of them could have been older than fourteen. She gasped, then bit down on the inside of her cheek to silence herself. No wonder the Red Room had tried to take that memory from her. If they'd let her keep it, she would have slit all their throats at her first chance.

So she'd been wrong, about the intimacy. She didn't know if that was good or bad. Now she was shaking. Barton tried to turn to see her face. “Natalia?”

“I just...” She took a deep breath when her voice came out ragged. “Sometimes I... remember things they kept me from remembering before. This, um... one of my, my sisters-in-arms. I was holding her as she died.”

After a minute, Barton put his hand over the one of hers resting in the middle of his stomach. Startled, she jerked, then got the reaction under control. He released her hand.

“I don't even remember her name.”

“I'm... sorry.”

“Thanks.”

He seemed to fall asleep again, except his body was limper, his breaths slower. She felt for the pulse in his neck: steady, but fast. Was he sinking into unconsciousness? “Barton.”

No response.

“Barton. Clint.”

No response.

She propped herself up on her left elbow, and shook his shoulder. “Clint. Can you hear me?”

“... Nnnn.”

She shook her head. “These drugs aren't working. We have to get you to a hospital.”

That got a response-- he tried to jerk awake, but it was like he was moving through molasses. “Can't...”

It was dark, and he was barely conscious; it was almost like she was alone. That gave her the courage to say softly, “Barton, I've watched a lot of men die. Please don't make me watch you.”

Silence.

“Do you know how strange it is for me to be trying so hard to _save_ a life?”

“Can't... climb.”

“You don't have to.”

After a minute, he nodded, slowly and jerkily.

She wriggled away from him and put her clothes back on. She stuffed a set of his clothes in a bag, with some food and water, and grabbed the climbing gear-- this time with sufficiently long rope, and another pair of gloves-- and his bow and quiver. She knelt by the pile of blankets.

“... can walk.”

She helped him struggle up, then steadied him as he got into his pants and shirt. Every movement he made was slow and labored. She handed him the jacket and the blankets; he took the bow and quiver from her, too. 

He stumbled out of the cabin and locked it, then slumped against the wall. They had a long walk to the second cliff, and she seriously considered looking for something in the cabin to make some sort of sled out of, but she didn't think she'd find anything. She got on his left side, pulled his good arm across her shoulders, and took as much of his weight as he'd give her. Together, they staggered through the field and into the woods.

They reached the cliff, eventually. He sank to his knees and panted for breath. She handed him the harness, and clipped the rope into the anchor at the top of the cliff. When he had enough strength to pull the harness on and tie in, she lowered him down. Even through heavy gloves, the weight of the rope burned against her tattered palms. When he was safely down, she started the down-climb.

She had to take off the gloves; this pair made her fingers too clumsy to grip. She shuddered at the pain of the rock against her palms. At the bottom of the cliff, Barton was curled in the fetal position next to his bag, unmoving. Her arms were burning. They didn't have time for this. She let go, and dropped the remaining fifteen feet.

She landed well, rolled, rolled again to shed momentum, and slammed face-first into a rock that had blended too well from above. _Shit_. Then the pain blossomed. _Oh, shit_.

“'Talia.” Barton slid an arm under her shoulders and helped her up, though she could see the effort it was costing him.

“I'm fine.” She forced herself to stand. He wasn't going to make it all the way to the car. If she ran to it, then drove back, would it be any faster then helping him stumble down the trail? Maybe not, but it would take less exertion on his part. “I'm going to get the car. It's past the washout.”

He shook his head, and fumbled in his pocket. He handed her a set of car keys. “Back... there.” He pointed past the cliff. “Car. Fifty feet.”

She nodded, and took off running. It took longer than it should have to find the car; it blended amazingly well for something that looked like it would be fire engine red in broad daylight. She started the ignition, and the engine purred.

She got back to Barton and got him in the car. Even leaning on her for support, he could barely walk. He had to bend over and gasp for breath, and he was shaking from fatigue and fever. 

She squeezed the car through a one-eighty; then she headed down the trail, high beams on, going at a crawl. The trail narrowed, then narrowed some more. Then they were at the spot where huge chunks of cliff had fallen away. She forced herself to breathe slowly, and relaxed her grip on the wheel. The driver's side mirror scraped against the rock. The car seemed to lurch to the side-- she gunned it-- for an awful moment, they stuck, and then shot forward. They were past.

After that, the rest of the trail seemed easy. She floored it as soon as they reached the road. The nearest town west, she remembered, was a couple of hours away. Instead, she headed south at the first intersection they came to, going off of maps half-glimpsed in travel plazas. It was dark, and the roads were deserted. She took the curves too quickly, jamming on the brakes frequently to keep from veering into the rock or the fences. She didn't apologize when she made them both jerk against their seatbelts. He was still breathing, but she thought he was past hearing.

It was twenty minutes before they got far enough down the mountain to see signs of life. An old man was just shutting down his gas station for the night. She shoved the car into park and jumped out. “Can you tell me where the nearest hospital is?” she called.

The man turned around slowly, peering at her. 

“My friend's very sick.”

“Take this road south, follow the signs to the highway, go west, then go south at the junction, you'll hit the city in about twenty minutes. It's on the south side.”

Barton muttered something. She leaned back in the car. “What?”

“Not the nearest hospital.”

“Barton--” Did he even know what he was saying?

His eyes opened, and he met her gaze forcefully. “Not,” he repeated, “the nearest hospital.”

She stared at him.

“I can make it. Don't want them knowing... where I was.”

She didn't waste breath arguing, just stood back up and said, “And where's the closest one after that?”

“After that? About an hour and a half, I'd say. You want the same road. Just follow the signs.”

She thanked him and got back in the car, pulling back onto the road so fast the tires squealed. “Barton, it's an hour more to the next hospital.”

“That's fine.”

“You're not _fine_!”

He didn't answer. She kept driving. She thought he was unconscious, and listened for the rasping breathing. They passed _right by_ the small hospital. She glanced at it--

The car swerved sharply to the right. “Don't you dare.” Barton let go of the wheel so she could regain control of the car. “Romanova, you try to take me there, I will jump out of a moving vehicle.”

“You're delirious, Barton.”

“Know what I'm doing.” He gasped for breath. “You get me to the next hospital, I'll be alive when we get there.”

Besides tying him up, what choice had he left her? “Deal.” She pressed harder on the accelerator.

The needle crept over a hundred as the miles of dark, deserted road slid by. His breathing grew increasingly labored. “Barton.”

“Mmm.”

Twenty more miles. Thirty. Forty. He was still breathing. “Barton, you awake.”

“Drive.”

Another twenty miles. It was all blurring together. “Barton.”

No response.

“ _Barton_.”

After a moment, he took a slow, tortured breath, but he didn't respond.

“Don't you dare,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “you promised--”

They made it in an hour instead of ninety minutes. She slid into the emergency room portico with a squeal of stressed brakes, leapt out, and ran for the door. “I need a stretcher!”

She waited long enough to see a flurry activity, then ran back out. She opened the passenger door and unbuckled Barton. “Thank... you,” he whispered. The stretcher arrived; she pulled him up and out of the car, only letting go when she saw that the hospital staff had him. 

“I'll be right behind you.” She parked the car, threw his bow and quiver in the trunk, made sure her holster was out of sight, and ran for the door. They'd taken him right back. They tried to block her from following; she flashed her S.H.I.E.L.D. ID, which she'd never used since they'd given it to her after Amsterdam. “This man is in my custody. I can't let him out of my sight.” She didn't know what ID Barton had on him, but she'd make it work.

The nurse scowled. “Do you need the police?”

“No. He's not violent. He's a master of escape.”

“He's not even conscious!”

“Yeah, well, you'd never believe where I found him.” Especially as she didn't intend to tell them.

The nurse scowled again, but let her go back. She hugged the wall and stayed out of the way as they checked his vitals and hooked him up to an IV. Then they tried to draw blood. When the nurse touched the new needle to Barton's other arm, he jerked away, eyes opening. Natalia leaned forward so she was directly in his line of sight. “You're all right. You're in the hospital.”

He recognized her, and relaxed. His eyes shut. He didn't move when they pricked him a second time. After that, the nurses didn't look at her like she was a hassle.

They sent someone to sit down with her and get his medical history. She told them what she could, and gave them the name of the drug he'd reacted badly to. They took Barton off for an X-ray; she followed, and waited right outside. Then it was back to the emergency room. His fever spiked again. She grabbed a passing nurse. “He's freezing. Can you bring a blanket?”

The man walked off without a word, but a few minutes later came back with three blankets. The activity settled down, and she sat down, watching his monitors closely. The doctor came about thirty minutes later. “Labs will come back tomorrow, but from the symptoms and chest x-ray it looks like a clear case of pneumonia,” she said. “Has he been outside lately? Under stress?”

She'd given this information to the nurses, in an abridged way. “He was stabbed a few days ago. He had an allergic reaction to the painkillers, and... uh, yes. Stress.”

“We'll be admitting him. It's a bad case. From his cough and his lymph nodes, it looks like it's bacterial, so we've started him on antibiotics. Someone will be by to take him up in the next few minutes, and the regular doctor will see him on rounds.”

“Thank you.”

The room they took Barton to was, thankfully, unoccupied. She settled into the chair in the corner. The room was dim; she was sleepy. She stretched one muscle group after another, moving to the floor when the chair felt too restrictive. She'd ended up giving them his S.H.I.E.L.D. ID from his wallet, but just in case that hadn't tripped their radar, she texted Coulson the GPS coordinates of the hospital.

Another doctor came in and checked on Barton. He was a tall, gangly, redhaired man who reminded her of Dr. Rosales. “Your friend's quite the fighter. Most people would be dead by now.”

“What's his prognosis?”

“I think he'll make a full recovery. He should respond quickly to antibiotics.”

“He was taking cipro and a z-pac.”

The doctor nodded. “Those weren't enough to keep up with the illness and the exhaustion. We have him on the big guns now. The fact that he managed to survive at all makes me think he'll get better quickly.” He looked her over with a penetrating gaze. “You look a bit beat up, too.”

“Um.”

“Do you need a nurse to check you over?”

“No. Thank you.”

He left. She yawned, widely, and the movement made her face sting. The doctor's words reminded her that she'd fallen face-first into a rock. Maybe the dried blood all over her face was why the nurses had stared. She washed her face and hands. The soap stung her raw flesh.

Barton's breathing was starting to sound better, but she could have imagined it. A nurse came by to check his vitals, and brought another blanket. She pinched her arm to stay awake. She'd suffered sleep deprivation worse than this in the Red Room. Was she going soft? There was probably tea and coffee, somewhere, but she wasn't going to leave Barton to go find it. It would ruin her cover as his captor, and besides, she'd had too much experience waking disoriented and alone in a hospital bed to leave him there. She splashed cold water on her face, and wondered what S.H.I.E.L.D was going to do to her for running off. 

About an hour later Barton opened his eyes. He blinked a few times. “Romanova?”

“Yeah.”

He closed his eyes and fell asleep again.

She watched him, the most dangerous man she'd ever met, sleeping deeply with the aid of heavy medication. It didn't matter that he was nearly unconscious, could barely move, and was too sick to fight off a kitten-- he had the power to impel her to do impossible, irrational, crazy things. Once was an accident; twice required re-examining her worldview. Whatever madness was in him, was in her now, too.

An hour after that, he became restless. He started to toss and turn, pulling at his IV. She shook him gently awake. He stared up at her. “Bow, where's...”

“It's in the trunk. It's safe.”

He fell asleep again. She went back to the chair, put her boots up on the end of the bed, and allowed her eyes to close. If anyone was coming, she'd hear. No one could sneak up on her...

The nurse's assistant came by, made notes on the clipboard, and left. Barton was sleeping easily now. She let her eyes close again. Her neck was stiff, but it was worth it. She...

Someone was coming.

Between placing the first footstep as too precise for a nurse or a doctor, and hearing the second one, she had her gun out with the safety off. With the second footstep came an estimate of distance-- whoever it was was about ten feet off. She darted around the bed and hid herself in the folds of the curtains, putting her feet behind the cart, and touched her knives in their sheaths. Someone was silhouetted in the door--

“Don't shoot, it's me,” Coulson said.

She lowered the gun and stepped out of the shadows. “How'd you know I was there?”

“Because you weren't in the chair.” He came into the room, and looked down at Barton, equally relieved, fond, and annoyed. It was a soft look, suitable only for soft, dim light. “How is he?”

“Pneumonia.” She leaned against the wall. “The doctor thought it should respond well to treatment.”

He looked her over. “You look like you've had a rough day,” he said finally.

“Mmm.” She wasn't going to give anything away.

He picked up Barton's clipboard and looked it over.

“He said he saw a man named Jacques Duquesne in Tennessee,” she said. It was Barton's story to tell, but if there was a trail to pick up, sooner was better than later. “He called him 'The Swordsman.' Does that... mean anything to you?”

His gaze had sharpened on her face. “Yes it does.” He put the clipboard down. “I need to make some calls. I'll be right back.”

She sat, dumbly, not even thinking much, and watched the stars. After about twenty minutes Coulson returned, carrying a small bag, a bottle of water, and a fast food bag. He dragged the chair from the other bed over, and handed her the bag. “Have some breakfast.”

She looked inside: three wrapped burgers. “Are these all for--” 

“Yes.”

She was tearing into the first one before he finished the word. It was full of hot, greasy meat and cheese. After two days of inadequate meals and exhaustion, it was possibly the best thing she'd ever tasted. She finished the first one in about four bites, and unwrapped the second.

“Give me your other hand.”

She looked at him suspiciously, and swallowed. “Why?”

He held up a roll of bandages.

She continued to regard him with suspicion. Coulson didn't make her feel threatened. As far as she could tell, he didn't make anyone feel threatened, which was why he was so dangerous. But S.H.I.E.L.D had samples of most of her bodily fluids already, and her hands really stung. She stuck her left hand out, palm up. Whatever antiseptic gel Coulson had, it wasn't the experimental stuff from Barton's cabin; it didn't numb the pain, but it took the edge off of it. His hands were careful and precise as he wrapped her palm in gauze, then in some sort of waterproof film that melded together and shaped itself to her skin.

“Standard S.H.I.E.L.D issue,” he said, off of her look. “Haven't you used it by now?”

“Most things stop bleeding on their own.”

“Your concern for your own well-being is so reassuring.” He tucked the end of the film under. “Other hand.”

She put the burger in her other hand, wiped it on her pants, and gave him her right hand.

He tended it with the same... the word, she supposed, was gentleness. “What happened to Barton?”

It was the right psychological moment to ask: he'd fed her, bandaged her wounds, and was now asking calmly, instead of demanding information. Coulson was very much not stupid.

“What you probably guessed,” she said, around a large mouthful. “By the time I ran into him, he'd been wandering around outside. He got sick.”

“And where did you run into him?”

“Rolling joints at a free-love festival.”

Coulson gave her a mild look. She looked back, unrepentant. She hadn't gone through all _that_ just to let it slip out in conversation. He was insulting her to assume that she would.

He seemed to realize that, too. He sighed. “It was worth a try.” He finished wrapping the film on her right hand. “So you...?”

She unwrapped the third burger. “Talked him into going to the hospital.”

“In my experience, it's not particularly easy to convince Barton to do anything he doesn't want to do.”

“I never said it was _easy_.”

“Hear you talkin' bout me,” Barton slurred. “Good th'ngs, hope.”

They both looked up; his eyelids were heavy, but his eyes glinted underneath. Coulson went to his side. “Barton, you’re an idiot.”

“Sir?” Barton said, as if he didn't have any idea what Coulson could possibly be talking about.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“And I don't know what happened, but it looks like you gave Ms. Romanova quite an experience.”

“Ro— R— Rovamon-- Norvamon--“ He tried three times to get her name out and gave up. “N’talia?”

“Hi.”

“Thought. Dreamed you.”

“No. It's not your day for screaming nightmares.”

Barton laughed at that, a wet, hacking sound that went on and on until he was coughing. Coulson gave her a reproachful look. Then he put the back of his hand on Barton’s forehead to check his temperature. Barton didn’t flinch. “Go to sleep, Clint. Someone will be here when you wake up.”

“Nngh.” Barton appeared to follow Coulson’s advice.

“Are you going to stay?” she asked after a minute or two.

He nodded. “I can work from here, until they say he's stabilized enough to be loaded onto a S.H.I.E.L.D. chopper. Clint doesn't... do well, with hospitals.” He took a black credit card out of his wallet. “There's a hotel two blocks down. Sleep for at least four hours. That's an order.”

She took the card.

“I'll leave instructions in case we move him before you return.”

At the hotel, she talked the desk manager into giving her the room with the biggest bathtub in the hotel. The remaining dried blood on her face probably had something to do with her success. She stripped off her clothes and washed them in the sink with a little shampoo, changing the water three times until they were clean. She wrung them out, draped them over the shower rod, stuffed a washcloth in the overflow slit of the tub, and filled it high with steaming water. Then she slid into the water, and let it sting every scrape and cut she'd acquired over the last days.

She stayed submerged until the dirt was loosened. Coulson's miracle wrap stayed on her hands as she scrubbed her skin and washed her hair, twice. Then she toweled off, checked the room, crawled naked between the sheets, and put a pillow over her head.

She woke feeling almost human again. The hot water had eased some of the soreness from her muscles, though she was still regretting leaving that bottle of Scotch behind. Her world wasn't spinning because of sleep deprivation, and she could smell herself without cringing. There were no messages from Coulson, so she dressed, made a stop, and went back to the hospital. She took Barton's weapon and clothes up with her. As she approached the room, she heard voices: Barton was awake. He still sounded weak and congested, but he was coherent.

“… better.”

“Good. Then I can ask you what the hell you were thinking.”

“I feel a sudden weakness returning, sir.”

She walked in. “You sound better.”

Both men stopped, and looked at her. “Yeah,” Barton said. “I feel better.” His lips twitched. “Not that that's a high bar.”

She glanced at Coulson. “When are you getting transferred?”

“This morning. I hope.” Barton glanced away. “Coulson, can you give us a minute?”

“Of course.” Coulson picked up his briefcase and walked out.

She waited, listening to his retreating footsteps. “You okay?” Barton asked when Coulson was sufficiently gone.

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

“Let me see your hands?”

She held them out. Barton whistled. “You did a number on them.”

“Skin heals.”

He shifted his legs over and made room for her on the edge of the bed. After a moment's hesitation, she sat down. “You didn't have to come after me. And I'd be dead now if you hadn't. So thank you. Natalia.” His gaze was steady.

It was a relief to see his eyes clear and unconfused, and to hear him talking sensibly. “You didn't have to hold your fire in Klaipeda.”

He snorted, and looked down at his hands. “That was... that was a long time ago.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “A lifetime ago.”

He looked up quickly, but didn’t speak. 

Moving slowly, so he could anticipate her movement and avoid it if he wanted, she put her palm against his forehead— no, Coulson had done it the other way, hadn’t he. She could tell a difference in her temperature perception between the two sides of her hand. “You feel better.”

“Yeah, I do.”

She nodded. “Here.” She reached into her pocket. “Hospital food's terrible.”

He took the two Snickers bars, and looked from them to her. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” She slid off the bed. “Time to face the music.”

“What do you mean?”

Had he actually thought that S.H.I.E.L.D. had given her leave? “I went AWOL to find you.”

Barton stared at her.

“Didn't Coulson tell you?”

“Uh, no.” He ran his tongue over his chapped lower lip. “He, he left that part out.”

“Yeah. Well.” She stuck her hands in her pockets. “Get better soon.”

“Thanks. See you soon, Natalia.”

“See you, Clint.”

She found Coulson a respectable distance down the corridor, sitting in the waiting area. “What now? Hung by my thumbs? By the neck until dead? Slow death by fire?”

He looked up. “Contrary to what you seem to believe, S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't make a practice of executing its people.”

“There's a first time for everything.”

“And you saved one of my best agents. So I think we're even.”

She shrugged. “I'm going back.” She reached into her pocket. “Give this to Barton for me when he runs out.”

Coulson took it from her. “A candy bar.”

She shrugged again, and stuck her hands in her pockets. Then she turned to leave.

“Ms. Romanova.”

She turned back. “Hmm?”

He was smiling slightly. “Thank you.”

She tilted her head. “... mmm.” She swallowed. “If he jumps out of the window and does something stupid before the helicopter shows up, it's your turn to catch him.”

“Acknowledged.” He waved.

She waved back, and made herself scarce before Coulson asked how she was getting back to base, and before Barton remembered she had his keys. She could, of course, take his car back up to the cabin and pick up the beat-up one she'd left there. But... she jiggled the keys. His car looked like it went _fast._

*

The hospital was excruciatingly boring, but it was better than being dead. Clint was too exhausted to mind the boredom like he normally would. He occupied himself by reading Coulson's work on the tablet in the reflection of the TV screen, and counted the time until someone would come by to figure out whether he could be moved. He puzzled over Natalia's rescue, too. He hadn't seen _that_ coming. But that would take more brain power to figure out than he could muster at the moment.

“Hey, Coulson.”

Coulson looked up.

“Thanks for, uh, staying.”

Coulson nodded. He went back to his work. Clint started to doze. After a while, he heard Coulson sigh. “You did good, Barton.”

“Hmm?” Clint blinked.

“... Bringing Romanova in,” Coulson admitted.

Clint blinked again, then grinned. “Can I say I told you so, sir?”

“No.”

“I told you so, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know much about rock-climbing. Apologies for any procedural flubs. Thanks to A for advice on that point.


	9. Epilogue

Natalia stared at the grass. It was an ugly view, especially at this time of year, but she didn’t care. She was doing something novel: staring out a window. There was nowhere she had to go, no one she had to kill, and no battle that she had to fight. Not that day.

It was foolishly sentimental, but there was something about the nature of a window that changed the whole character of a room. She’d felt no attachment to her tiny cell in the lower levels; even when S.H.I.E.L.D. had stopped overtly using it as her prison, it had just been a place to sleep. But when she'd crossed the threshold, bone-tired, after North Carolina, she’d felt a sense of relief so surprising that she’d attributed it to sleep deprivation. This place _meant_ something to her. Not a lot, no, but she’d had pleasant experiences here: reading voraciously for weeks during her forced confinement, and feeling, after her breakdown, a sense of self. Also, no one had tried to kill her here, yet. It was a place that was not automatically interchangeable with any other place with a bed. 

It also had the distinction of holding her one non-functional possession: a five-inch plastic model of a cargo plane. She still had it. She wasn’t quite sure why she’d kept it in the first place, but after North Carolina, she wasn’t going to throw it out. Well, okay, she had an idea why she’d kept it in the first place: because she didn’t understand Clint Barton, but she liked the way he treated her. She liked _him._

Liking someone. Now _that_ was novel.

Someone knocked on the door. She touched the gun strapped to her right thigh, just in case, then stood and pressed the door release. She blinked.

“Hi.” Dr. Rosales looked… not calm. Instead of her professional clothes, she was wearing jeans and a turtleneck sweater, and her long red hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was out of the wheelchair, leaning heavily on a cane. “Can I come in?”

“Uh, sure.” Natalia stepped back from the doorway. There was only one chair; Dr. Rosie took it, and turned it away from the window, almost absentmindedly. It was probably considered rude to loom over someone, especially while you were armed, so Natalia sat on the bed.

The doctor stared into space. Something was clearly on her mind. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” Natalia just waited for her to come to the point. She looked better than she had the last time Natalia had seen her, but she was still thin, with dark circles under her eyes.

“I’m leaving S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Dr. Rosie said finally. “I, uh… I thought you might want to know.”

Natalia blinked again. “… Why?”

The doctor gestured down at her body. “Because… because of this.” She sounded defeated. “I thought I was invincible. I thought I could take anything life could throw at me. Turns out I was wrong.”

Natalia didn’t know what to say.

Dr. Rosie laughed ruefully. “I’m not like you. I’m not a secret agent. I can’t, I can't live... like this.”

“You have PTSD.”

Dr. Rosie looked up quickly. “Well-spotted.” Her voice had a bit of an edge. “What was it you said? Physician, heal thyself? … yes, I am seeing someone about it.”

Natalia felt, she felt _sorry_ for the other woman. She’d never done Natalia any harm, she’d done her a great deal of good, and she was valiant, in the old-fashioned sense, comprising both determination and naïvete. And now she was in pain.

“I’m keeping my security clearance,” Dr. Rosie continued, “so if something happens with you, I’ll be available to consult. I’m not cutting the cord entirely.”

“Where will you go?” It seemed like a polite thing to ask, but Natalia was also genuinely curious.

“I have an old friend who runs a community clinic in Boston.” She tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “He offered me a job. It’ll be… I’m looking forward to it.”

“Good.” Then, not quite sure why, she asked, “Does Agent Coulson know you’re leaving?”

Dr. Rosie’s lips twitched, in a way that looked a lot like Coulson himself. “Yes. I, um, visited him in the hospital when they kept him overnight for observation. I floated the idea then.”

Natalia wondered how he’d taken it, but didn’t ask. She wasn’t going to pry. She wasn’t going to be so obviously interested. It was unbecoming for a spy.

“Here.” Dr. Rosales handed her a slip of paper with a phone number on it— prepared before she’d walked in the room. “This is my cell phone, if you ever need it.”

“… thank you.”

“I, uh…” Dr. Rosales’ uncertainty was a far cry from her previous boundless professional energy. It seemed she’d found a problem she couldn’t solve simply by collecting more data. “It was a pleasure to work on your case. And an honor.”

“An honor?” Natalia raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by the high-flying rhetoric.

The doctor nodded. “Yes,” she said simply. She sat quietly for another moment, then stood, and headed for the door. “My last day is Tuesday. I don’t expect I’ll see you again.”

“No,” Natalia agreed. She didn’t know what was on her mission roster next, but she didn’t think S.H.I.E.L.D. would let her sit and stare out the window for long. “Uh, hey.”

Dr. Rosales stopped at the doorway, and turned back.

Natalia ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “Um… thanks for fixing my head.”

Dr. Rosales smiled radiantly, and for a minute, didn’t look so troubled. “You’re welcome.”

“And, uh, good luck.”

“Thank you. You, too.” Then she limped out.

*

After Natalia's next mission, she was ordered to report to the front lobby. She stepped off the elevator warily. She looked around-- and Barton stepped directly in front of her, almost, but not quite, invading her personal space. “Where,” he said, “is my _car_?”

She took her time looking him up and down, and didn't bother hiding her smirk. He looked better, a lot better. “In a secure and undisclosed location.”

He folded his arms across his chest and stared, presumably at her, through his dark glasses.

“You came all the way to Missouri to ask me that?” She didn't actually know where he'd been, but she hadn't seen him around the base.

He backed down. “No. I was sent to get you. Come on.”

_He'd_ been sent to get her? He was nearly as good of a pilot and a driver as he was a marksman. “Are you back up to speed?”

He grimaced. “Three weeks light duty.”

“Like being a courier.”

“Yep.”

That made more sense.

He pushed back his glasses and looked her up and down, his sharp eyes probably cataloging every scrape, bruise, and smear of someone else's tissue. “You want I should call Coulson, get some time for you to clean up?”

“Let's just go.”

She followed him to a waiting jet. His bow and quiver were secured behind the pilot's seat. She was the only passenger, apparently, so she took the co-pilot's seat. “Where are we going?”

“I can't say.”

“Do you know what this is about?”

“Nope.”

They took off and swung east immediately. She flipped a few switches and monitored some backup systems, but Barton was a good enough pilot that, as long as they weren't shooting, he could pretty much fly the plane on his own. She sniffed. “Sorry about the smell.”

“I once had to hide for two days in a pigsty. After Coulson pulled me out, it was a week before I could smell anything again.”

“You've been with Coulson a while, then.”

“Since he brought me in.”

That made sense, and answered some old questions. The answer to 'what did Coulson do to earn Barton's trust,' was, apparently... the same thing Barton had done to earn her trust.

“Hands healed up?” Barton asked.

She turned her hands palm up. He glanced over at the pink skin. “Itches,” she admitted.

They crossed the North Carolina coast. “Why'd you come after me?”

The corners of her mouth turned up. “Why didn’t you kill me in Klaipeda?”

“... Huh.” He swung them south. They flew in silence for a few minutes. Then: “Think I owe you an apology, too.”

“Why?”

“For doing something so stupid you had to save my ass.”

“You weren’t thinking clearly.”

“Wasn’t the fever. It was running into Duquesne.”

She’d come to the same conclusion herself. “Was it really him?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t say any more, and he didn't explain how he was sure. Had he tried to track the man down after leaving the hospital?

There was something in the water up ahead. It looked like an aircraft carrier, but it was no design she'd ever infiltrated, blown up, or otherwise seen. Barton banked gently towards it and activated the radio. “This is S.H.I.E.L.D. shuttle eight-nine-charlie, approaching for runway B. Over.”

“So,” she said. “This is S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top-secret base?”

“Mmm.”

“I was kind of expecting something... more.”

“Eight-nine-charlie, we're about to lift off, maintain the appropriate distance and wait. Over.”

“This is eight-nine-charlie, I copy.”

“Lift off?”

Barton put them into a hover and didn't answer. She watched intently. The sea was churning, _bubbling_ , and something big was moving under the surface-- then the whole carrier started-- “ _Holy shit!_ ”

Barton looked over and grinned at her as the aircraft carrier slowly rose out of the water, supported by four giant wings with what looked like rotor blades set inside. The whole thing shed water as it rose and rose. Barton took them into a long, lazy loop to get out of the way. “That's, uh,” she said. “That's pretty damn impressive.” It was just as impressive that she'd never heard a whisper about it, before when she was a freelancer, or later on the S.H.I.E.L.D. base.

“Oh, and we have a base in Manhattan, too,” Barton said, like it was an afterthought.

She shot him a mock-glare. He smirked. “We call it the Helicarrier.”

She nodded. That made sense.

The Helicarrier appeared to reach its altitude. Barton conferred with air traffic control and then brought them in on the deck, as easily as if he were bringing them down on a giant tarmac instead of scant feet from a drop into a giant rotor hovering twenty thousand feet over the ocean.

He grabbed his gear from behind the seat. He handed her an air mask and took another for himself, then hit the hatch release. It was cold as _fuck_. The chill hit her like a sledgehammer, and would have taken her breath away if she hadn't had the mask. They only had a couple meters to hurry to an airlock, but when they got there, she was shaking.

When the outer door closed, Barton pulled off his mask and hung it on a rack next to a line of others. She did the same. “First time you have to do that, kind of takes the glamour out of it.” He was shaking, too, and his voice was uneven.

“No. It's still fucking impressive.”

He reached past her to hit the release on the inner door. The first time, he missed it, and bumped her hip. He got it on the second try. Still distracted by the Helicarrier, it took a moment for her brain to catch up. She made an embarrassingly late, embarrassingly obvious grab at Barton's hand, but he pulled the keys out of reach.

He grinned, looking deeply satisfied.

“... You _pickpocketed_ me. _You_ pickpocketed me.”

“You think carnies make all their money from ticket sales?” He pocketed the keys-- on the other side of his body, away from her.

“You still have to find the car.”

He gave her a deeply unimpressed look, which she probably deserved.

They passed through another airlock, then through a heated corridor that almost took the chill out of her fingers and face. She followed Barton into a lift, then through a corridor and into a large, impressive, glass-fronted control room-- a bridge. At the top was a small, circular dais, ringed with control panels, that looked like some sort of captain's stand. It was empty now, but she recalled Dr. Rosie's words about Fury's keen sense of the dramatic. 

There was a smaller control area next to the walkway. She followed Barton to the tall, slender man who was standing there. “Agent Robinson,” Barton said.

The man turned, and gave Barton a nod. He was greying at the temples, with tired eyes and a surprisingly gentle smile.

“This is Natalia Romanova,” Barton continued. “Romanova, Agent Robinson.”

Robinson held out his hand. “Ms. Romanova. I've heard a lot about you.”

She shook it firmly. “I've heard a lot about you, too.”

Next to her, Barton was suddenly very, very still.

But Robinson didn't ask what she'd heard. “Director Fury's waiting for you.”

“Okay...” Did they want her wandering around looking for him?

Barton lifted his hand and turned to go. 

“No-- you, too, Agent Barton.”

He turned back. He looked at Agent Robinson, then at her, eyebrows raised. “He in his office?”

“Yes.”

Barton nodded once and set off down a different set of corridors. She followed, trying to take in everything she saw without being too obvious about it. Barton probably knew what she was doing anyway, but she had her dignity.

They stopped in front of a guarded door. Barton showed his ID; she fished hers out of her pocket and showed it, too. The guards waved them through. One of them looked at her curiously, but it might have been the dried bits of other people on her uniform.

The office was small, but on a ship like this, every bit of space would be precious. It was probably larger than anyone else's would have been. They were at the edge of the ship, and a thick window looked out into open space. It would probably be underwater if they landed.

Fury was sitting behind a massive desk. Coulson was leaning against the wall. He nodded in greeting. She wondered if this was going to be her reprimand for going rogue.

But Fury waved them both to the chairs in front of his desk. “Agent Barton,” he began without preamble. “You're known for working alone, and you've made some pretty damn impressive shots doing so, but you also have a strong reputation as a field leader.”

“Sir.”

Fury nodded, as if his point were self-evident-- or as if it would kill him to actually divulge information. “Agent Romanova.”

“... yes.” He seemed to expect a response, and she wasn't going to say _sir_.

Wait. _Agent_ Romanova? She glanced reflexively at Coulson. He smiled slightly.

“You've proved to my satisfaction that you can be a useful, and loyal--” she caught the slight emphasis on that word-- “member of S.H.I.E.L.D. You've also proven that you can take orders and work well with others.”

“... thank you.”

Barton shifted suddenly in his seat. She glanced at him, but his face was blank.

Fury steepled his fingertips. “Your training missions have been extremely successful. For a pair of loners, you work together pretty damn well. I'm making your partnership permanent, and commissioning the two of you as a strike team.”

“Strike team?”

“It means we get to blow things up.” Barton looked a little blindsided.

Fury raised an eyebrow. “Your missions will be extremely variable and dangerous. You'll go wherever S.H.I.E.L.D. needs you and do whatever we need you to, operating outside the traditional command structure of the soldiers and uniformed agents. You'll also be assigned to other groups, or split up, as needed. Agent Coulson will be your primary handler.” He pushed two pieces of paper across the desk. “Strike Team Delta: Clint Barton, and Natalia Romanova. Congratulations.”

“... thank you, sir,” Barton said.

“No,” she said.

Three people stared at her.

“Not-- to the strike team. Yes to that.” Technically, they hadn't given her a choice about that. “No to...” She took a deep breath, and doubted the wisdom of bringing this up at all. “I don't want to be Natalia Romanova any more.”

Coulson looked concerned.

“I want to change my name,” she clarified, before Coulson called the psych department to come stick her brains back in her head.

Fury looked curious. “Why?”

“The Red Room gave me that name. They don't own me any more. They don't get a vote. I have no reason to keep it. And there are only two people in this whole damn organization who can pronounce it correctly, and they're both in this room.”

Fury looked pleased. She didn't specify which two.

“What will you change it to?” Coulson asked.

She'd been thinking about this a lot, as she went back and forth over whether it was worth turning 'Natalia Romanova' into something good, or if her new person deserved a new name. She'd fought hard, _so_ hard, to become Natalia, to get to _know_ Natalia. Natalia was worth knowing-- but she still had the stamp of the Red Room in her name. And except for the last six months, most of her memories of being called 'Natalia' were terrible. 

But her short name-- that had only been used in rare moments of intimacy and camaraderie with her fellow Red Room captives. It was foolish, but she wondered if in those moments, the other girls had seen through their and her programming to someone underneath who was real, to the girl who would have murdered their captors if they hadn't erased the memory of cradling another girl as she died. Her short name, she could stand. Natasha.

As for the rest of it... if the Red Room had given her her name, she didn't want to be the daughter of any imaginary or real Romanov, or Alianov, that might have been associated with them. She didn't have parents. There was no point in being named after them. The Red Room had made her, but she had remade herself, and so earned the right to name herself. 

“Natasha Romanoff.” It was enough like her old name that she would answer to it, still sounded Russian to anyone who didn't know better, and was improper enough to confuse anyone who did. It wasn't Russian, it wasn't American. It didn't follow the rules. Like she had done, it took what the Red Room had given her, and made it hers.

“I'll help you with the paperwork,” Coulson promised.

“You'll receive your first assignment in a week,” Fury continued. “Agent Romanoff, you'll need to go through S.H.I.E.L.D. orientation. Coulson will give you the details. Do you have any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“No.”

“Then you're dismissed.”

Coulson stayed to talk to Fury. She followed Barton outside. She was still trying to process what had just happened. “Hey, uh... Clint.”

He turned around.

She sorted words out in her head, so she could make an attempt at communicating like a normal person about _Feelings_. “They didn't actually ask us about this. Are you okay with it?”

He studied her, gaze very intense and not at all wary. She wasn't insulted by his hesitation. She appreciated that he was giving her an honest response. “Yes. I am. Are you?”

She thought through the brief history of their relationship, beginning with a standoff in a dark Lithuanian alley. It had been a wild ride, even when he wasn't driving. She'd never met anyone like him before. He'd revolutionized her concept of people, though she was far from ready to extend the idea to the rest of the human race. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “I think I am.”

“Good.” He flashed a lopsided grin, and his seriousness fell away like a discarded cloak. “We need to get started right away with your training. We only have a week. I'll get some videos, and then we'll--”

“Barton. I've already _been_ trained.”

“I meant your pop culture education.”

_What?_ “I need one of those like I need a hole in my head.”

He shrugged. “Trepanning via People magazine? I guess I could see it.”

She gave him a _you're hopeless_ look, didn't quite manage not to grin, and kept walking. He fell into step beside her. “You ever seen Casablanca?”

“That's... a love story.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “ _Part_ of it, sure. But it's also 'the beginning of a beautiful friendship.'”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Well, come on, then, there's gotta be a DVD player on this boat somewhere.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this, come back in a few months for the next part, called Partners.


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